


Maybe I Will Remember Five Kanji by the End of This

by daphnerunning, Galiko



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: AU, M/M, mentions of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:22:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 87,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate Universe. See one Yukimura Seiichi, having grown up in England with Atobe Keigo as his childhood friend and having never attended Rikkai in middle school. In the midst of his sweep of the European Juniors Circuit, an illness takes him out of commission...and a full, year-long recovery is what he needs in order to get back on his feet. </p><p>Upon relocating to Japan, he attends Rikkai's high school division, and finds himself in the midst of a culture shock, as well as the shock of dealing with team play for the first time. Sanada isn't helping, but to be fair, Yukimura isn't so good at helping himself. Character deconstruction, and the definition of AU. Sanada/Yukimura end game pairing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The problem with Japan is that it's _Japan_. 

 

Returning in the middle of summer isn't pleasant, and most of the time spent there is _boring_ , besides the whole adjusting thing. Admittedly, the huge house is a pleasantly far cry from the apartment Yukimura is used to in London, but what good is that when there's nothing to do (probably only he would say that about Tokyo) and no one is _around?_ The Japanese school system is weird for starting in April, after all. 

 

At least it's time enough to figure out weird school things. 

 

Going to school in Osaka is a much less appealing idea than it was when Yukimura was in England, excited to know he would have a _friend_ \--and a good one, at that--at Shitenhouji High. Now, when he's mostly recovered, and Shiraishi takes a day to show him around (Osaka is _hot_ and that's a big nope, considering how his shirt sticks to his back and makes him itch all over), Yukimura can't _help_ but shy away. 

 

"You'll be our captain," Shiraishi had told him months ago, equal parts relief and excitement coloring his voice. He's not the same as Yukimura remembers him from every summer past, but that's mostly because he doesn't wear glasses anymore, and it's contacts instead. "We made it to Nationals this year, but, ahh…we just need more finesse, I think!"

 

Yukimura feels _bad_ about changing his mind about those plans, but not so much when the alternative is Rikkai's high school division with a national-winning team. 

 

He's done enough recovering. He doesn't want a _team_ to recover as well, and Shiraishi understands that.

 

April _finally_ rolls around, complete with obnoxiously stuffy suits that he already gives up wearing around half of the first day. Apparently, loosening his tie and draping his jacket over his shoulders is all that it takes to become _Yankee-kun_ , a misnomer that makes Yukimura twitch on about five levels. It keeps happening all the way to club sign-ups and there's a redhead there that giggles for a good ten minutes about it.

 

The captain knows who he is--mercy of all mercies--but the rest of the words that come out of his mouth aren't any good at all. "We just don't need another singles player, Yukimura-kun," he says, shrugging. "We had a full training camp over the summer that established most of our regulars already."

 

Yukimura's teeth set on edge at that. If he had _known_ he was attending Rikkai, he certainly would have been there, instead of trying to find good food in Tokyo. "Most?"

 

"We could use another doubles pair. Do you play doubles?" 

 

 _No, hell no_ , and with that, Yukimura shudders in recollection of the one time he and Atobe attempted to do as much in Wimbledon's Junior tournament. "Yes." A lie through his teeth, and then, "Is there someone else you'd like me to talk to? I don't really know anyone here yet, so…" 

 

"Well--he didn't join the club, but we're trying to get him to…"

 

And that's why music class is the only one he gets to early the next day, albeit yawning (and receiving glares for it) in the hallways. At least they have Red Bull in Japan, and Yukimura chugs another one down before slinking in, infinitely pleased that it's just himself and Sanada Genichirou for the moment--and definitely, that's Sanada; the captain said he looked kind of like a samurai and nothing could ever be more accurate, but just to make sure--

 

"Gen--ah, Sanada Genichirou, right?" Maybe if he bats his eyelashes enough, this will be easy. The captain warned him it wouldn't be. A good thing Yukimura thinks it's funny to be underestimated. 

 

There isn’t usually anyone _here_. That’s what Sanada likes best about the music classroom, along with, well, everything else about it. His things are neatly stacked, swords propped up against the wall for kendo club after school, bookbag centered in its place, and his spot at the piano is comfortably in the center of the bench so he can tap out his reference notes. 

 

He does _not_ want some pretty boy foreigner coming in to mess with his private time. There’s a _reason_ he likes coming to music class early. The room is as quiet as it’s possible to get at such a noisy school, given the cheap soundproofing on the walls. He looks up, eyes narrowed through his bangs. “Yes, I’m Sanada Genichirou.” He doesn’t ask who the stranger is. There are very few foreigners in school, and none other with the frivolous nickname _Yankee-kun_.

 

"Perfect! I'm Yukimura Seiichi." Where's his pat on the back for getting the order right without trying too hard? Also, maybe, possibly, if Sanada didn't glare so much, he'd look less constipated and more handsome. Yukimura refrains from saying that and cheerfully plops himself down onto one side of the piano bench instead. "I was told that you play tennis. Why didn't you sign up for the team?" 

 

“I played tennis in middle school.” Sanada moves over to make room, after a long pause and with a glower. “I didn’t have time. I’m busy.”

 

"It's just the _start_ of high school; middle school wasn't so long ago," Yukimura hums, scooting closer again. "You could pick it back up again in a heartbeat. Did you know they're looking for another solid doubles team? You should play with me." 

 

“Not interested. Like I said, I’m busy.” That’s only half the reason, but it should be enough for this yankee--damn, he needs to stop calling him that, it’s a stupid name.

 

Yukimura huffs. "Ahh, with what? I heard you were really good, so how can you quit something you're that good at?" 

 

“I’m good at a lot of things.” It’s not bragging if it’s true. Maybe. “I don’t see the need to do them all at once.”

 

Yukimura pouts, just a little, even though he can't _help_ but snark: "You don't have to sing while you play tennis, or…whatever else it is that you're good at. Come on, just one game with me, and if you hate it, then I'll leave you alone." 

 

“I don’t want to play tennis with you.” That shouldn’t be hard to understand. Logic tells him that’s a pretty easy goddamn concept. “Leave me alone now, _Yankee-kun_.”

 

Less pouting, more scowling now. "Do you idiots even know what a yankee _is?_ " Rather than get up, he gives Sanada a flick on the shoulder. "I'm in this class, too, _Gen-chan_ , so get up and let me practice. Also, I'm challenging you to a duel." If he isn't going to be nice about tennis, then maybe Yukimura won't be nice, either.

 

Sanada’s eyes narrow. He breathes in deeply through his nose, then out through his mouth. His grandfather would be _very_ disappointed in his training if he were to forsake all his meditation in order to slap some idiot across the face. “Name your time and place.”

 

 _That_ worked, at least. "Mmnn, after all club activities, and meet me on the west tennis court. Now get up, you take up a lot of room." 

 

Sanada doubts that this strange person has nearly as many club activities as he has. “Six-thirty, West tennis court. I’ll be there.” He stands, shouldering his bag and his swords, and leaves the room, trying not to curse and kick a wall in sheer irritation.

 

Yukimura is proud of himself for not making a face at his back like a five year-old. 

 

"Did you manage to recruit him?" 

 

Yukimura isn't so sure why their captain is so damnably excitable when it comes to Sanada. Maybe he really is that good, but until proven otherwise, he's just kind of a boring asshole.

 

"Not _yet_ ," Yukimura hedges at practice. "But I will, just wait. I challenged him to a match after everything today--well, more of a tennis duel than anything."

 

That giggly redhead from before stops and stares at him warily. "Does he _know_ it's about tennis?"

 

Yukimura stares back. "What else could it be about?" 

 

As he comes to find out, judging by the swords strapped to Sanada's back when he arrives much later, there are probably many other things. "Um," Yukimura dryly attempts, "this is about tennis. Perhaps I should have clarified." 

 

Sanada stops in his tracks, and lets out a long, slow sigh. It had been a fleeting hope, that this boy might actually be quite interesting, given that Sanada gets challenged to relatively few duels. But no, it’s just more tennis that he doesn’t want to play. “I don’t have a racket,” he says, glaring at everyone on the court as if it’s their fault. Some of his old teammates, especially Marui, look entirely too happy to see him, though he gives them a nod anyway. “I don’t play anymore, so I don’t bring it.” _Obviously_.

 

"I've got an extra racket you can borrow," Yukimura _helpfully_ offers, smiling an ounce too sweetly. "I bet you can still play just fine, and I _did_ challenge you. Are you really just going to walk away?"

 

The look Sanada gives him is withering. “I never said I wouldn’t play. I don’t want to use yours, they’re not my brand.” He can tell that from just the packaging.

 

"Oh, suck it up." How prissy can one guy be? Yukimura rescinds that thought a second later, because he knows Atobe. He takes out his spare and thrusts it in Sanada's direction. "Just play already." 

 

Sanada’s lip curls. “When you’re good enough,” he mutters, stalking off to his side of the court, “brands _matter_. You serve.” Not like this match will last long.

 

Ah. That's an angry little twitch that he hasn't felt courtesy of an opponent in _quite_ some time. 

 

Serving isn't his strongest point, but being fresh off of a lay-off makes _nothing_ his strong point, so Yukimura doesn't _care_. It's all a level playing field as far as he's concerned, and it's with that mindset that he sends a ball over with enough force in its bounce to slam into the metal fence some feet back and keep spinning. "If you're good enough," Yukimura snidely shoots back, and picks up another ball, "you can play with anything and still win. 15-Love."

 

Sanada’s eyes narrow, and he tightens his grip on the handle. Ah. This is going to be more interesting than he thought. That’s inconvenient and nothing he feels like dealing with today. “Come on, then.” The next ball will _not_ go past him.

 

"I'm going to knock that awful hat of yours off," Yukimura mutters underneath his breath, tosses the ball, and slams it back over. _Just play doubles with me and get over it, you goddamn repressed wildebeest._

 

Sanada can feel the hostility in the ball. He drinks it in, lunges, and returns it with all the force he can muster, enough to knock it into the baseline on the other boy’s side so hard he’s pretty sure smoke comes out. “Fifteen all. Is that your best serve? Or your only serve?”

 

"You're such a ball of sunshine to play against, Gen-chan." It's with irritation that Yukimura remembers how over a year ago, he'd chase a ball that strong and heavy and smack it back over right into someone's toes. Shoving that aside, he grabs up another ball. "Even children know a few different serves--should I give you an underhanded one that's easier to hit?" 

 

It’s not easy to return the boy’s serves, but Sanada manages--barely. The boy is giving him more of a run for his money than he likes, and after a 40-40 difference, Sanada _barely_ squeaks by to win the first game, taking position for a serve with a scowl. “One to Zero. Is this how they play overseas?” he demands.

 

"Sure, if they're feeling lazy," Yukimura teases, less annoyed and more _pleased_ now that Sanada is actually this good. He perches at the baseline, leaning his weight from foot to foot. "You ever seen a match at Wimbledon in person? Ah, I forgot; tennis isn't _really_ your thing."                                                           

 

Just for that, Sanada breathes deep, and invokes fire, swift and deadly, for his first serve. It shoots over the net, slamming into Yukimura’s side of the court, and he’s slightly surprised that it doesn’t leave a smoking hole. He’ll try harder next time. “No, it isn’t. Challenge me to a _real_ duel sometime.”

 

He's going to get the next one of those, even if it kills him. Yukimura tosses him a ball and tries not to breathe heavily. "This is real enough to me, thanks."

 

Invade like fire, yes, but there’s also something to be said for a quiet approach. The next ball barely passes the net, and drops silently onto the other side to stay there on the ground. He breathes deep, and looks right at the other boy’s eyes. “Are you ready for me to serve again?”

 

"Shut up and play tennis already." Now he's just _mad_. Eager, but angry about it. That'll do, more or less. 

 

Sanada snatches another ball, and launches into an attack, whole body tense and prepared as he slams the ball over the net, directly to Yukimura’s left corner, making him dive for a backhand. Maybe if he’s lucky, this will end quickly, and the boy will get frustrated and leave him alone.

 

That'll definitely do. 

 

Even if he has to dive, Yukimura returns it sharp and merciless, uncaring of how his chest heaves from the effort. There's a burn in his legs and that's _nice_ , a reminder that he can actually _do this_ and _feel_ when it hurts. 

 

The ball is a sharp one, and Sanada has to leap for it, landing solidly on his leg when he sends the ball back to bounce at Yukimura’s feet, right up against his body. The boy is _good_ at tennis, better than Sanada had expected, and he hates that he’s (sort of) enjoying himself.

 

Yukimura has no qualms about making this rally a long one, not when he's _certain_ he can return every single one of these balls. 

 

What's fun is the fact that Sanada seems to be the same way, but Yukimura doesn't mind rushing the net and catching all of those obnoxious drop shots before they can bounce and roll away. He doesn't mind running back to the baseline before Sanada has even hit his return, and he really doesn't care that leaping up to smack a ball back is a bit less than graceful because he's stumbling to catch up because at least he's _returned it_. 

 

 _Just play doubles with me. Just fucking do it, so I can be on this team and_ play.

 

Sanada keeps his service game--again, _barely_. The next one, Yukimura’s, he loses, and just barely manages to be a good sport about it. It’s been a long, long time since he’s lost, and he hasn’t gotten any better at it since then. He can see it out of the corner of his eye, on the faces of his former teammates--they’re wondering if he’s going soft, if Yukimura is really that good, and what’s going on. He sort of wants to slap that look off their faces.

 

“Five games to three, Sanada!” the referee calls, and Sanada wipes sweat from his forehead. 

 

“You’re better than I thought,” he acknowledges, and his blood pounds at the workout he’s getting, all courtesy of this elegant, lithe, young--best not to dwell on that. “But this is the last game.”

 

Yukimura wishes he was sweating a lot, lot less. 

 

His hands slip a bit when he holds his racket, and he scrubs one off irritably on his shorts. "Overseas, we just fucking play tennis and don't make predictions when we don't know what we're talking about," he bites out breathlessly, angrier than he wants to be and wishing he didn't have sweat dripping off his damned eyelashes. "Shut up and serve already."

 

“You need to work on your stamina,” Sanada bites out, bouncing the ball hard before wheeling back into a serve. This time, he’ll make Yukimura run. No matter what tricks the boy has up his sleeve--a very _talented_ sleeve, he admits--tennis is a game of endurance.

 

Sanada wouldn't have been saying that a goddamned year and a half ago.

 

The thought stings and makes Yukimura angrier still, and he grits his teeth when he dives for that first serve and manages to hit it back, skinning his knee in the process. He's not quite fast enough to hit it back again, but damn if he doesn't try. 

 

"15-Love!" 

 

Can he kill the ref yet? 

 

For every ball he hits back, there's another one he can't quite get to in time. The first miss reminds him that he _hates_ Japan--why couldn't he have just stayed in England? they're called boarding schools for a reason--and the second reminds him that he hates the idea of having to _prove himself_ to be on some high school tennis club just to play one match--

 

The third reminds him that nothing is quite right or the same anymore, and that no one plays him _seriously_ in tennis since in England, before, so how could he even _think_ to compete with this guy?

 

"Game and match to Sanada, six games to three!" 

 

"Give me my racket back," is all Yukimura snaps, thrusting out his hand over the net. If there isn't a saying about how good sportsmanship should be for people that are good at sports, then there _should be_. 

 

Sanada extends the racket, grip first, and watches Yukimura. He’s not handling it well, which turns Sanada’s stomach. “If you can’t handle losing,” he growls, “don’t play games. You ruin the sanctity of the sport for everyone.”

 

"If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it," Yukimura bites out, snatching his racket back and shoving his sweaty hair from his face. "The hell are you complaining about, anyway? I said I'd fuck off if I lost." 

 

Sanada’s jaw tightens, and he shoulders his blades and his bag. “This is why I don’t bother playing tennis with anyone else,” he mutters. “Even Akaya is more mature.” The last is sort of to his old teammates, a couple of whom snort.

 

There really aren't enough rude words in Japanese for this conversation. Yukimura settles for turning abruptly on his heel--he's not shaking, he's _not_ \--and stalking off to grab his long-abandoned jacket off of the ground. "Great. And now you don't have to play tennis with me ever again."

 

For just a moment, Sanada regrets it. No one’s given him this much of a run for his money in years; he hasn’t worked this hard since he invited Yanagi and Akaya to both play him at once. It feels _good_ to have a strong opponent, and he almost says something kind about it.

 

But the boy is sort of hissy and spitty, and so rude Sanada doesn’t even want to deal with it. “Fine. Goodbye.” He stalks off, seeking the quietude of the walk home, and a long practice to follow.

 

~~

 

Yukimura doesn't like complaining to anyone, let alone about his _failures._

 

Logic tells him that of _course_ there are going to be strong players at one of the schools most renowned for their tennis program in Japan. Logic tells him that he should be happy he can even play at all, let alone remotely decent. 

 

What logic doesn't account for is the crippling sense of loss (to someone not even on the team), or the fact that he'd rather die than go back to practice with that club after the weekend is over, because now they've all watched him ( _Yankee-kun_ ) lose to someone they _clearly_ love and respect.

 

He should have gone to Shitenhouji. Scratch that, he should have been able to convince his parents to let him stay in _England_. 

 

Rather than say _please tell me you're throwing a party this weekend_ , Yukimura settles on a far less desperate _didn't you want to show me around your family's favorite Tokyo villa_ text, because Atobe responds so, _so_ much better to flattery and maybe _he_ will have some ideas about murdering Sanada and getting away with it. 

 

**[But of course. There’s a party this Friday, are you in? There are at least 53 beauties dying to meet my tennis prodigy friend.]**

 

A moment later, a second text.

 

**[Also I have the booze you like that isn’t wine, plebe.]**

 

 **[Don't want 53 beauties, want to be drowned in your pool.]** Yukimura is mostly joking. **[How much do I have to beg for a slightly smaller thing that is less party, more getting drunk in a room together?]**

 

If he's lucky, the booze will make him have a reaction and he won't remember this past week. 

 

 **[It can be arranged. Let me top.]** The message even _sounds_ sort of futile and plaintive, as if the sender has given up.

 

 **[Will you be satisfied if I say we can flip a coin?]** Except it doesn't matter, because Atobe always ends up in his lap when they're drunk, anyway. God, when is the last time he had sex? Yukimura frowns down at his phone as if accusing it of being at fault. 

 

 **[Good enough. Friday or Saturday? Or tonight?]** Never mind that it’s just Wednesday, Atobe knows how Yukimura is.

 

He's lost control of his life. **[Tonight. I need to talk about things. And maybe Saturday? Can I bring a friend then?]** _That_ sounds good: getting drunk with the only two people he really _knows_ in Japan. If Shiraishi tries to argue, Yukimura decides he'll just pay for his train ticket and that'll be the end of it. 

 

**[My glorious home will be host to one of the most fascinating meetings in Japan, truly. I have what you need. Come by any time.]**

 

Yukimura is slightly less upset about life in general by the time he arrives at Atobe's villa. It's probably the fact he ran most of the way and is too tired to give a shit, but he'll take it all the same. Seeing a familiar face helps, too.

 

"This place is pretty far out. How do you get to school on time every day? Helicopter?" Yukimura hopes that isn't the answer. It probably is. He blinks sweat out of his eyes. Unsurprisingly, it looks like all of the Atobe family's other mansions, albeit less castle-y. Some of the ones in Europe are _extremely_ castle-y. "I hate this country." 

 

“Fighter jet,” Atobe says cheerfully, and brings him inside, where a waiter offers a soft cloth meant for wiping his face. “Would you like to jump in the pool first? There’s a swim-up bar.”

 

"Immediately," Yukimura gratefully agrees, somehow relieved that it's by fighter jet and not helicopter. He gingerly wipes at his face, following at Atobe's heels. "I hope your experience at Hyotei has been pleasant enough for the both of us so far." Maybe _someone_ can have a good time here. 

 

“Hyotei is extremely pleasant!” Atobe doesn’t bother with swimming clothes--so _tacky_. He strips off unconcernedly and executes a neat dive into the South Pool, reveling in the feel of water kept at the perfect temperature. “I told you you should have attended. I can still get you in, if Rikkai isn’t living up to its frightful splendor.”

 

A noncommittal noise is enough. Yukimura strips off his shirt, and settles for dangling his feet into the water for now. "No singles spots, just doubles," he tiredly reveals, "and they won't even let me play that because I don't have a partner. I hate doubles." 

 

“Apalling.” Atobe flips into a gentle backstroke, lengthening his muscles out with a long sigh. “I find that somewhat surprising, actually. Rikkai’s been famous for doubles for the past few years.”

 

Yukimura snorts quietly. "Doesn't carry over into the high school division, apparently. There's a guy they wanted me to pair up with really badly because he didn't join the team again, but he's a dick and I gave up."

 

“Ah, truly the great Seiichi Yukimura is showing his colors. So bravely he attempted once to work with a man! Songs and stories will be told about his greatness for centuries to come.”

 

The splash of water over and into Atobe's face is less than vicious, if only because it's nice hearing his name said _properly_. "I _tried_ being nice at first. He flat out said no, though, so I had to challenge him to even get him to give me the time of day and--" Yukimura's lips purse angrily, the sting of that loss still far, far too strong. 

 

Atobe pauses mid-stroke, blinking as his feet sink down to the bottom of the shallow end of the pool. There’s something about the strange tension in Yukimura… “Seiichi...you didn’t _lose_ …?”

 

"I didn't expect him to be that _good_. How can you be that good and not want to play?" Yukimura twitches a little, and gives into the urge to just kick his shorts off and slide into the water in one fell swoop. He resurfaces, frowning still (and dripping). "…Most of his old teammates were there and everything." He sounds like a complaining five year old, and can't bring himself to care when it twists like a hot knife in his chest to remember that for once, he honestly wasn't good enough. "Maybe I should just quit the club. The tournament circle can't be _that_ slow in Japan, can it?" 

 

“It’s...pretty slow, compared to what we’re used to,” Atobe hedges. “You could always go back to Europe, of course. You’re still ranked there, even if the rankings don’t cross over to here. Who was it who beat you, by the way?”

 

"I can't go back to Europe, my parents won't let me. Otherwise I would've never left." That's another sore topic that makes him want to hiss and spit. Yukimura knocks his head back against one of the walls of the pool. "Weird samurai thing…Sanada Genichirou, that's it."

 

“Ahhhhhh.” 

 

The sound comes out slowly, and Atobe leans back into the water, lacing his fingers together behind his head before kicking gently away from the side. “I know him. My team’s never managed to beat him in doubles. Always wanted to play him in singles, but he never responded to my requests for an unofficial match. Is he really that good?”

 

Yukimura sulkily slides further down into the water, letting it cover his nose for a few seconds before he inches back up again. "I would've beaten him. You know, before." He chews on his lower lip. "But yes, he's good. And if he weren't remotely handsome, I'd want to smack him in the face with my racket. Thoughts on how to hide his body if I do manage to murder him in revenge?" 

 

Atobe waves a hand. “We don’t speak of such tasteless matters in the pool. I’d been given to understand that you were more or less back to your old fighting shape, didn’t you say? Though I suppose anyone would start to slip after an illness of that length. Not my glorious self, of course, but...ah, you know.”

 

"…There's still a stamina issue." If he can admit it to anyone, it's Atobe, whose family found him the best doctors and sent him enough flowers to make him sneeze for four hours straight. Yukimura shrugs tiredly. "No matter what I do, it seems like that's just a thing now." Which would be fine, except Sanada had to call him on it in front of _everyone_. 

 

“For now,” Atobe puts forth. He _hates_ seeing Yukimura so upset, so defeated. “You thought the spasms were _just a thing_ too, and you haven’t had one for months, right?” He hopes that’s right. It had been terrifying, Seiichi in the hospital all the time.

 

"I haven't been able to run a kilometer without feeling winded in the past nine months, either." It comes off too snappish for his liking, and Yukimura frowns, swallowing down that bitter, angry spike that wells up in his throat again. "Sorry," he mutters. "I'm just frustrated. Ah, do we have to talk about this? Tell me about how Hyotei is better than Rikkai instead. Or about your boyfriend." Anything, really, though Yukimura is certain he has picked two topics that Atobe likes.

 

 Atobe brightens immediately. “It’s a _lot_ better than Rikkai, that’s for certain. For one thing, of course, Rikkai has no king. Honestly, how do you people even function without proper leadership? For another, now that Kunimitsu no longer plays for a school team, we’re certain to be number one. Ah, next year is going to be better, though--half of my best doubles team is still in middle school, isn’t that a tragedy?”

 

"The biggest tragedy," Yukimura agrees, repressing a yawn as he slowly treads water. "Also, they don't function. They just glare and play like a bunch of singles players, even in doubles, which--well, I don't even care any more. They gave me a nickname already and it's stupid." 

 

“A nickname?” Atobe’s lip curls. “The only appropriate nickname is one you give yourself. How should others know the glory that waits inside you? Ah, you should have listened to me, I told you your talents would be wasted there. I’ll kick someone off singles if you want to come to Hyotei after all.” Jirou would be good in doubles, he’s always thought, and Seiichi will be frankly unbeatable once he gets his stamina back. Plus, there are certain concessions owed to a friend who’s spent years in the hospital.

 

"At this point, I feel like I should stay just to aggravate them. _Yankee-kun_ , though--do the Japanese even know what a yankee _is?_ Even by their definition, I'm not one." Said as he considers getting drunk enough to fall over. That's kind of a delinquent thing to do, he supposes. 

 

“Of course they don’t.” Atobe’s voice is amused, and not entirely pitying. “You know better, Seiichi. You’re a _gaijin_ , that’s all. Eh, Kabaji!” 

 

“Uss.” From the shadows, Kabaji stands, giving Yukimura a nod.

 

“Don’t you want to swim? It’s hot.”

 

Kabaji furrows his brow. In English, he answers, “If you wouldn’t mind. I don’t want to interrupt.”

 

“Of course not! Right, Seiichi? Oh, talk in Japanese, he made me promise to make him practice.”

 

"I was born in Japan, I'm not a gaijin. Well…technically." Yukimura heaves a long sigh and turns around, propping his head into his arms on the side of the pool. "If _you_ came back to England with me, my parents would probably be fine with it," he wheedles in English up to Kabaji, blatantly ignoring the request for Japanese practice.

 

Kabaji strips off, then slides into the pool, looking at Atobe for quick permission before answering in English. “I don’t want to leave Keigo. He’d get into too much trouble without me.”

 

“Oi, Kabaji! Where is your faith?”

 

"Can't argue with that. You kind of would fall off a cliff without Hiro around, Keikei," Yukimura teases. "So both of you go back to England with me. You'd be closer to your Tezuka-creature then, too." It's all a whiny pipe dream at best, courtesy of his own parents wanting to keep him within their sights in the event he tries to die again on them. How _wonderful_ that mindset is. 

 

“I’m the only one allowed to call him that,” Atobe mutters, and ducks under the water, letting it cascade down his hair and shoulders. “You’re not helping matters, either of you.”

 

“Sorry, Atobe-sama.” Probably only Yukimura and Atobe himself can hear the light humor in the name, as usual.

 

"Why do you get to try and convince me to come to Hyotei, but I can't try and convince you to go back _home?_ " Yukimura's eyes lid before he hauls himself out of the pool, and he accepts a towel from an attendant before huddling up into it and just leaving his feet in the water. "I'll even drink your gross wine, look how accommodating I am."

 

“I have excellent taste in wine!” Atobe protests. “Which you know to be true! If even Kunimitsu admits it, you know it must be so. Anyway, I have to be back here. Father needs me close by right now.” He doesn’t say much more than that. He’s rarely mentioned his father’s health, or the slow increase of responsibilities in the company he’s been taking on, and he doesn’t exactly want to start now.

 

Atobe family business is another thing he can't argue with. Yukimura bites back a sigh and kicks slowly in the water. "At least let's go on a weekend or something. No, better--let's go over Golden Week. Neither of you have anything planned, right? And everything's always _closed_ here, anyway, so what's the use in hanging around? Invite Kunimitsu, unless he's coming here for it." 

 

“He _does_ hate fireworks,” Atobe muses. “Good enough for me. Let’s do it. Just back home, or do you want to go off galavanting somewhere? How many forms of transportation should I bring?”

 

"I'm up for galavanting! Just use common sense." This at least makes up for stuffy, stoic Sanada Genichirou and his stupidly handsome face. "Aren't you glad, Hiro? We get to be the awkward not-couple again, putting up with their kissy faces the whole time." 

 

Kabaji looks less than _glad_. “If they start having sex in the pool again, you get to bring refreshments this time.”

 

“Kabaji, how cruel! After all Seiichi has done for you!”

 

“I’ll lend you my earplugs.”

 

"Maybe I'll just join in," Yukimura cheerfully replies. "That'll teach them." 

 

Kabaji nods, and says gravely, “Pass.”

 

“At least one of you has some common sense. _Honestly_ , Seiichi, Kunimitsu would probably have a panic attack,” Atobe says fondly.

 

"That's the point. Then none of us would have to endure the noises you two make." 

 

“No, you’ll just have to endure me making frightening cooing noises at him while he recovers.” Atobe smiles. “Ask yourself, is that really any better?”

 

“Trust me,” Kabaji deadpans, “it isn’t.”

 

Yukimura scrunches up his nose in distaste. "You two lovebirds can have your own hotel room if we go galavanting. And don't forget it's your duty to get me drunk tonight, please."

 

“I told you there’s an open bar,” Atobe says, amused. “A swim-up one, in fact. Oi, Kabaji, man your station!”

 

“Uss.”

 

Kabaji swims into the bar, stepping up into the little enclosure, looking more than ready to pour any drink with at least some accuracy.

 

"I like being forcibly indulged! Then there's less of a chance I'll get blamed for any ill side effects. Hiro, can you just bring me a glass and a bottle of Keigo's favorite red, I don't want to share."

 

There have been better ideas, admittedly. Wine is a bad idea on the best of days--this much of it makes him weirdly lightheaded and doesn't make him feel drunk as much as it makes him feel…ah…floaty? 

 

At least his frustration regarding one Sanada Genichirou is less resounding now. 

 

"Keiiiigo." Even if Atobe smells somewhat like chlorine, he also still smells _good_ \--and feels good, and solid, and warm, and _familiar_ , not like anything else in his country, and so Yukimura is content to snuggle up next to him and maybe gnaw on his shoulder a bit. "Keigo. Your wine is awful." 

 

Atobe finishes off his own bottle, and tosses it over his shoulder into the pool. “Mm, I don’t see you complaining. Or...yes. You’re complainy. Always complainy, Seiichi, why? Whyyyyy?”

 

He enjoys the lightness of the water, and wraps his arms and legs around Yukimura, effectively hanging off of him. “Floaty. I’m floating.”

 

"Heavy," Yukimura grumbles, and sort of scrabbles at the edge of the pool for a moment in a half-hearted attempt to climb out with Atobe still attached to his back. "Keigo, all that wine's gonna make you fat. Mmn, maybe in a good way. Squishy." They're probably going to drown like this, but that's fine as long as he gets to reach back and pinch one of Atobe's thighs. 

 

“I,” Atobe says, trying not to squeak indignantly and failing spectacularly (in the way that any Atobe does anything), “will _never_ be squishy fat! Ah, let me just--let me--nn, Seiichi, don’t pick me up, it’s not dignified.” Then again, he doesn’t exactly let go, either. Seiichi is _warm_ , and he sort of rubs his face on the other boy. Yes, this one is his.

 

Determinedly, Yukimura heaves his weight upward and rolls them both out of the pool, giggling when the motion dislodges Atobe (for the most part) and Yukimura ends up flopping on top of him. "You're definitely squishy in some places," he sighs, and shoves his face into Atobe's neck, rubbing it there when he gives one thigh another pinch. "Here. Aaand--here." Grabbing Atobe's ass is always a really good idea. 

 

Atobe lets out a noise, but he’s drunk enough to pretend that he hasn’t heard it, and hopefully Seiichi is drunk enough that he actually _hadn’t_ heard it. Seiichi is so _lean_ , compact and elegant, and Atobe can’t help but be reminded of Tezuka’s long, precise fingers and the deliberate, fluttering way he always touches Atobe when they’re alone. He sighs, leaning his head back against the ground, and squirms. “Seeing him next week,” he murmurs, and knows it’s _shameless_ , the way he parts his thighs to draw Seiichi closer. “Don’t leave marks.”

 

"We can still flip a coin." It's a half-hearted suggestion. "Don't have a coin, though," Yukimura adds, and only briefly sets his teeth to Atobe's throat, just enough to nibble but not actually bruise. His hands close around Atobe's hips, tugging them up as he wriggles between his thighs, and Yukimura sighs out a breath from his nose when he sloppily kisses his way up to that full, soft mouth. "You like it when I fuck you, anyway." 

 

Atobe nibbles on Yukimura’s lips, tasting fine wine that he just _knows_ is being criminally underappreciated, and wraps his legs around the other boy’s waist. “We can flip for it later,” he says, which makes total sense to him at the moment. “Just, uh, you’re good at coins, so you go first.” Or something. Whatever means Yukimura won’t stop grinding down onto him, kissing him, and burning away all the cold loneliness of the Atobe household when his father is watching him constantly.

 

"Yeah. Good at coins," Yukimura laughs, sucking on Atobe's lower lip before pressing a wet, messy kiss to the side of his mouth. He _loves_ being able to grab and touch and kiss someone again, and Atobe is probably the best one to have his hands full of then, when he's so familiar and so eager. _No marks_ he reminds himself, though scratches are sort of fair game when his hands curve around to grab solid handfuls of Atobe's ass, his cock already dripping and slick as he grinds down. 

 

Ah, shit, Atobe’s needed this.

 

He lunges up for Yukimura’s mouth, kissing him deep and feeling the sensations course down his spine, making him so hard he can barely stand it. He’s a bit mindless when he grinds up, hips moving in slow, eager circles, up against Yukimura’s cock, back against his wandering, grasping hands. “Seiichi,” he breathes, and laughs a little to himself. “I know I slurred that. I know. I can--I, I can stop if I want. S’just funny.”

 

"Hard to say when you're drunk." Yukimura's mouth finds the lobe of an ear--bites, pulls, sucks, because at least marks won't be so noticeable there. "Sei-chan's fine. Mnn, your Sei-chan." He rocks backward and hauls Atobe with him, up into his lap, and he sucks in a sharp breath at the hard, slick slide of their bodies against one another, at the way Atobe feels wriggling down into his lap. "Really want you to ride me--ahh, let me finger you first, open up," he breathlessly urges, thumbing Atobe's lower lip. 

 

Atobe’s eyes glaze over as all the blood still left in his brain rushes south. “Mm, my Sei-chan,” he agrees, and parts his lips, leaning forward to mouth over his fingers, sucking them urgently into his mouth, letting his tongue make them slippery slick, imagining them sliding inside him, filling him up instead, and he lets out a groan. He wriggles down against the other boy’s cock, hips canting back and forth, feeling the hard length swell against his ass and knowing how good it’s going to be in a minute.

 

Atobe's going to _complain_ later.

 

It always ends up like this, and they never do anything to fix it. Not that Yukimura _cares_ right now when Atobe's mouth is wet and hot around his fingers, and he can't _help_ but groan and twist them against that tongue. His cock _aches_ , twitches with a flick of Atobe's tongue, and he has to force himself to drag his hand away, sliding it down to his hole instead, already a little slick from where his cock has rubbed against it. "Gonna make it really good," Yukimura promises, and his breath hitches hard when he twists his wrist and manages to work one slick finger inside. Atobe is tight and squirmy and _wriggly_ and he wishes he could bruise and mark him up in the process of making him hold _still_. "Fuck, when's the last time we did this?" It's hot, knowing _very well_ that he's the only one that gets to fuck Atobe like _this_. 

 

“Three months.” Even gasping and squirming, clinging to Yukimura’s shoulders and sinking into a kind of heady bliss, Atobe remembers. It’s been so long since someone has been determined with him, forceful with him, has cared about what he wanted and determined to give it to him whether he was willing to ask for it or not. Kunimitsu is perfect, but this...yeah, he needs this sometimes.

 

He bites his tongue, wanting to encourage Yukimura to go _faster_ , knowing full well that even this much is enough, and he’ll hurt for it in the morning. “Nnnff, just--Sei-chan, just—” It’s too big, just two of those fingers, and he has to pant for air.

 

"So noisy, just _wait--_ " Yukimura's fingers slide in _deep_ , his mouth hot and insistent against Atobe's neck even if he can't bite (really wants to, but no marks, he _promised_ ) and Yukimura vents a little bit of that frustration in dragging his other hand up, thumbing a nipple, and _pinching_. "You're gonna be a good boy, aren't you, Keikei?" The names are stupid (always have been), the idea of rushing this along is stupid, but his dick is hard and Atobe's already squirming on his hand like he's going to die if he doesn't have more and that's encouragement enough for both of them. "You always say it's too much, but you're not going to complain this time, are you?" 

 

Atobe’s breath catches in his throat as a low whine, and he struggles a little, just enough that Yukimura will have to _pull_. Ah, no, too much, that’s a bit sensitive, and he bites his lip, batting at that hand. “Enough goddamn foreplay,” he groans, arranging his knees on either side of Yukimura’s hips, back bowed over him, and he leans down for a swift kiss. “You’d better have--ah, here’s one,” he mutters, reaching for his discarded swim trunks and pulling out a condom. Convenience is everything, when he knows Yukimura is coming over. He rolls it onto Yukimura’s cock, breath catching and tripping at the feeling of how _hot_ and _heavy_ it is, and his eyes cross just a little. Then he raises up, bringing Yukimura’s hands to his hips. “I’ll be good,” he breathes. “Sei-chan always fucks me right.” If he were sober, it would take the skin being flayed from his bones to make him say something like that, but when he’s drunk it seems to _work_ , somehow.

 

At least there's enough lube already on the condom that this won't be _too_ difficult--or, well, those would be his thoughts if he were sober at all. "Next time," Yukimura huffs, grabbing at Atobe's hips, "I wanna come inside you. _Really_ inside you--I like it when you whine about how messy it is." 

 

Atobe's already going to be whining later, no doubt, and that's really, really good to think about. Yukimura has to remind himself not to bite, and kisses him instead, hot and hard and messy when he lets his cock drag against that tight hole. It always takes effort to get inside, because Atobe doesn't do this, Atobe is _picky_ , and that makes it that much more _satisfying_ to sink inside, gasping for a full breath and clutching at those lean sides, tugging and pulling and urging Atobe to take more.

 

Shit, this is why he doesn’t do this.

 

Atobe’s jaw clenches on a low, pained whine, his abdomen cramping, his forehead breaking out into sweat. He tries to breathe, but his lungs are spasming a little, and only knowing that this is _Seiichi_ , only _Seiichi_ , makes him try and relax. He gulps for air, knowing that this happens every goddamn time, forcing himself to _try, try, try_ , because it feels so fucking good when Seiichi’s buried hilt-deep in his ass. He gasps, a broken whine in his voice, and any thought of words is driven out of his head when he tries moving trembling thighs, grinding himself down on that thick, invasive cock inside him. “F-fuck—”

 

"Easy--fuck, ah, god, j-just breathe--a little--" Yukimura gasps out, his own voice caught up in his chest. Atobe is tight enough around him to be painful, and there's no real _helping it_ unless he's entirely inside and Atobe can get used to it, he knows that well enough. "Be good for me," Yukimura rasps into his ear, his hands splaying around the curve of Atobe's ass, stroking and kneading, easing him down inch by inch. "F-feel that? Almost all the way in, you're gonna be so full--"

 

 _I’m already so full I can’t breathe_ , Atobe wants to say, but he’s just too full to breathe. His body is straining, spasming, and if it didn’t feel so _good_ , he’d have tried to get away by now. His body is still trying a bit, without his permission, clenching down so tight there’s no chance for it to get _great_. “Come on, come on,” he mutters to himself, wiping sweat from his forehead (and the corners of his eyes--yes, it’s definitely just sweat). “A-almost there.” If it weren’t Seiichi, if he didn’t know it was going to be great, this would never work.

 

Yukimura always swears he's going to be patient, but he's never _quite_ good at that.

 

It's with an easy shove of his weight forward that he lands Atobe onto his back again, and he takes that brief, fleeting moment of surprise that loosens up the other boy's muscles to slide in long and deep and _fully_. "There," Yukimura pants out, sweat beading along his shoulder blades, dripping down his back when he rolls his hips forward and his eyes cross. "T-there you go, sometimes you just need it like this, don't you?" He grabs at Atobe's thighs, at his hips, bends his head down and bites and pulls at a nipple. "Doesn't matter how we do it, you always look good getting fucked." 

 

The noise Atobe lets out is hoarse and guttural, and he _twitches_ so hard it feels like he can’t control his own body. He bucks down onto Yukimura’s cock, a feral, unhinged noise coming from his mouth. He rakes a hand down through Yukimura’s hair, then sags back onto the floor, mouth gone slack, his cock dripping steadily onto his stomach. His eyes flutter, his thighs parted as far as they’ll go, chest arching into Yukimura’s touch. “F-f-fuck,” he pants, eyes rolling back into his head. “F-fuck me, Sei-chan—” God help him, he does _need_ this sometimes.

 

It's so much _easier_ when Atobe is like this. Yukimura likes the way his hands scrabble at his back, likes the way he splays himself out like he can't live without a dick inside of him, and so he bites again, tugging at another nipple before kissing Atobe again, rough and sloppy with every thrust that slides in deep and hard. He likes the visual of Atobe riding his cock, but this is just as good when he's sprawled out underneath him, wriggling down like he can't get enough and lending himself to every pull and tug of his hands. 

 

Yukimura leans up and back, just enough to better _see_ the obscene slap of their hips together when his cock disappears into Atobe's body, and he shudders hard, squeezing  Atobe's ass when he hauls him down onto his cock again. 

 

Atobe’s mind clicks suddenly, definitively off. 

 

His body _undulates_ , without his permission more than anything, and his voice goes low, husky, _pleading_. “Seiichi--just there, right--right there, you know, that’s perfect, god, I _need_ it, fuck—”

 

He has no idea what language he’s speaking, but judging by Yukimura’s reactions, it’s one he speaks as well.

 

It isn't Japanese, and that's what counts. 

 

English is good with sex, French is better, and Atobe's got the voice for all of it, especially when it _cracks_ when Yukimura shoves in again, nice and deep, _feeling_ the twinge of Atobe's body around him and barely stopping himself from biting into his shoulder. "Look how good you are, taking so much," he groans, a fumbling hand reaching down, fingers dragging along the cleft of Atobe's ass, brushing over where they're connected and how slick and tight and _tense_ it all is. "No one ever gives you what you need." 

 

 _Trying to be good, be good for you._ Atobe’s voice can’t handle that, busy as he is with soft, muttered curses in several languages, dipping to a low growl and up to a breathy, urgent whine again as Yukimura moves inside him. He fumbles weakly at the other boy’s hand, bucking up against him even as he tries to bat that questing hand away. “D-don’t--it’s too much already, Sei-chan—” 

 

It is too much, even though he loves it. It’s too much, no matter how he squirms and writhes and begs for more, cock leaking so much onto his stomach that he can’t tell if he’s coming or not.

 

"Shut up, you like it when it's too much--" Still, Yukimura's not even sure he could fit more in if he _tried_ , and it's a lot more fun just making Atobe squirm and _think about it_. Yukimura's breath hitches raggedly when he shoves in as deep as he can, when he's buried so far inside that he swears he can feel the thud of Atobe's own pulse, and he really _can't_ be blamed for biting down and muffling his own voice into Atobe's neck when he comes, not when it feels so damn good, not when he can feel it all the way down to his toes and is left shuddering and shivering long after. 

 

The last thrust is too much, and Atobe loses himself with a whimper, hips slamming down onto Yukimura’s cock. It feels _good_ inside him, better than it should, and he sobs out his release, cock dribbling onto his stomach, fingers scrabbling at his back in an inaccurate, helpless grab. He babbles something inarticulate, sagging back in a shuddering, useless heap. “Fuck,” he breathes, and doesn’t even begin to wipe away the tears.

 

Yukimura manages a breathy garble of words as he flops down bonelessly, nuzzling his face up Atobe's neck and against his face and so help him, but Atobe's sweat kind of tastes good when he mouths another kiss to the curve of his shoulder. "Yeah," he sighs, "fuck." 

 

Atobe’s eyes want to close, they inform him. Like, _immediately_. “Mm. You should….come over. More often. No talking, just drinking. And fucking. Let’s….let’s fucking.” Yeah.

 

"You're gonna whine later." He always does. "But okay," Yukimura sighs, making no real attempt to pull away. They'll wake up in 20 minutes and eventually get to the bedroom for a real sleep. "All the fucking." 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Shiriaishi has been to Tokyo before. It’s always pretty terrifying, given how fast everyone moves, and how they all seem to know where they’re going. It’s not like down south, where everyone will stop and say hello, or point a lost person in the proper direction. He worries for his team, every time they have to come up to the big city, and for good reason. 

 

Still, he doesn’t have much trouble hailing a cab, and it’s a short enough ride to Yukimura’s new place. It’s _lovely_ , and he can tell easily why Yukimura didn’t want to come to Shitenjouji. Osaka might be his place, but this is every inch Yukimura’s family, elegant and tasteful and without a bit of extraneous waste. 

 

Yukimura’s mother loves him, and hugs him, and always smells astonishingly good. It’s no time at all before he’s stuffed full of small crackers and cakes and sent up to Seiichi’s room, apparently to wait for him to come home from some extra make-up lesson. 

 

Yukimura’s room is as tasteful as the rest of the house, and Shiraishi wanders a bit, looking at photographs, at mementos, at maps and books and trophies. There are a lot of trophies, and Shiraishi feels a pang of loss for the Shitenhouji high school team that might have been, with a good captain like Seiichi at the helm. 

 

Ah, and the room smells _good_. Not like his mother, but like Seiichi himself, interwoven with light scent and soap, and something indescribably like Seiichi. Shiraishi breathes in deep, ready to stop the second he hears footsteps, not wanting to be that weird kid.

 

"Sorry to keep you waiting!"

 

In England, this never was a problem. There were never extra make-up classes because he never missed class, or if he _did_ , the teachers didn't care because his grades were nearly flawless. 

 

In Japan, apparently, he really is something of a delinquent. Yukimura supposes he can learn to live with that, if it means he doesn't have to go into chemistry labs. 

 

Seeing Shiraishi in his room at least reminds him that there are some good things about Japan, like remembering summer vacations on the beach, hauling Shiraishi along in spite of his protests, with both of them ending up half-drowned at times and that's fine because they would go on to play tennis later that day in the park and end up bright red and burnt to a crisp from the sun. Yukimura smiles, tosses his bag onto his bed, and grabs at Shiraishi to pull him close. "I'm really glad you could come, Kura--ahh, I have stories, I'm really regretting going to Rikkai already. No one's got a sense of humor there, not like you." 

 

That’s nice enough to make Shiraishi beam, and he gives Seiichi a welcoming hug before letting him go. “I’m sorry to hear that! I wish I could say you could transfer, but I think most schools are pretty intolerant of that in the middle of the year--well, you’d probably manage something, but the Osakan heat is getting pretty bad right now,” he adds, self-deprecatingly. “I doubt you’d want to come after all.” If Seiichi really wanted to come, he’d already be at Shitenhouji. Seiichi’s always gotten what he wants, something that mostly just makes Shiraishi stare in awed admiration. “It’s not like the summers we spent in Chiba, of course.” Nothing ever will be.

 

"I'm not so good with heat anymore," Yukimura admits with a sigh. "It has nothing to do with you, you know. I was thinking Rikkai would actually be a chance to _play_ again, without having to really worry about anything…instead I'm stuck begging even for a chance to hit during a practice match." He drops himself delicately down onto the end of his bed, shrugging. "Is what it is, I guess. You're a lot better at the captain thing, anyway, I think."

 

“I doubt that,” Shiraishi says, a sad little smile on his face. “Maybe then we’d have made Top 4 last year. They really don’t let you play? You’re better than anyone they have! Hell, you’re better than anyone we have!”

 

"That was middle school, it doesn't count." Yukimura stretches out a leg and pokes Shiraishi with his foot. "And no, they aren't letting me play at all. The only opening was for a doubles team, and the one guy they're willing for me to partner with won't even join the team. He's a complete ass. Don't ever play tennis with a guy that has a name like _Genichirou_." 

 

“That’s...a bit old-fashioned, don’t you think?” Shiraishi pokes back, leaning over to flop his head down onto Yukimura’s lap. “You should talk to him again. I don’t know anyone who’s good at saying no to you.”

 

"Try everyone at Rikkai." Yukimura huffs, and threads a hand through Shiraishi's hair, tugging gently. "I want to go back to England. Want to come to England with me? I apparently need a babysitter." 

 

Shiraishi laughs gently, butting his head against Yukimura’s hand, eyes half-closed at the feel of the softly scratching fingernails. “I’d love to. You’re in charge of getting my family to agree.” Yukimura has met his family, enough times to be daunted by the prospect.

 

Yukimura shudders at the thought. If there's a family more protective than his own, it's Shiraishi's. "Let's start smaller. Maybe they'll let you come with me to Atobe's--it's just a friendly thing, nothing fancy. I'm just sick of being the third wheel when Atobe and Tezuka are in the same room." 

 

“Is it tonight?” Shiraishi asks, thinking hard. “If it’s tonight, I can come, as long as your mother, well, tells my father I’m here if he calls. Otherwise I don’t think I’m supposed to leave Osaka for a good three weeks, even by Shinkansen. I have a round of exams coming up before Golden Week.”

 

"Oh, good, a fellow delinquent," Yukimura brightly replies. "It's tonight, so let's definitely go. My mom will cover for you, you know she's really easy-going about that sort of thing. Ah, god, how do you stand staying in Osaka for that long? Don't you melt? How do you play tennis in that heat?" 

 

“The heat starts to toughen you up, after a while,” Shiraishi says, hopelessly trying to convince him. “And when you go to anywhere else to play tennis, it’s so pleasantly cool!”

 

He sits up, stretches, and starts poking around the room. “Can I borrow something to wear? I don’t think what I have is good enough, and I bet we’re still the same size.”

 

"You're pretty cute no matter what," Yukimura says, though he rolls his way out of bed with a dismissive wave towards his closet. "Help yourself, I have way too many clothes anyway. Don't be too cute, though, someone will hit on you and it _might_ be Atobe. If you still wore glasses, it would definitely be Atobe." 

 

Shiraishi raises a startled hand to his face, then laughs nervously. “What...what kind of party is this, again?”

 

"The kind where you sit around with friends at a pool and drink a little bit of wine if you _want_ to. Come on, Kura, don't make me go alone," Yukimura pleads, hopping up from the bed to tug on his arm. "If Atobe gets all touchy, I'll make him stop."

 

Shiraishi scratches the back of his head. Annoyingly, it’s almost impossible to say no to Yukimura, especially for him. “Pick out something for me to wear, then. And no one had better try anything--I mean, it’s flattering, but….well, you know.”

 

"You're already at an advantage to avoid his groping because you aren't wearing glasses anymore, remember? Though you _did_ look nice with them," Yukimura idly recalls, and pulls away to rummage. "Sorry to drag you into this, but I _promise_ it'll be fun. Just…you know. You have the misfortune of being friends with a lot of Europeans." _That are all different levels of gay._

 

“I don’t mind a little...well, you know, it’s not like I’ve never been _out_ before.” Oh, it is. It definitely, obviously is, but Yukimura had come back all _cultured_ and _cool_ , and Shiraishi is always scrambling to try and keep up. When is a fifteen-year-old in Osaka going to find time to go out, anyway? He feels guilty enough for missing one tennis practice. “I just mean--it’s going to be _safe_ , isn’t it? And no one will make me drink?”

 

Yukimura shoots him an exasperated look over his shoulder, and throws a pair of jeans into his face. "Are you going to be paranoid about that all night? No one's going to make you do anything. The scariest thing might be the fact that Atobe strips naked and does backflips into the pool."

 

Shiraishi’s smile turns chagrined. “Sorry, sorry. I just--we’ve all heard things about the Atobe parties, even in Osaka. I’ve _played_ him, he does sort of...have a way about him, doesn’t he?” And because he’s curious, he adds, “Are they _good_ backflips?”

 

Yukimura blinks. "They're…well, they're fine. He's an agile sort, you know? It's just…I mean, he's naked while he's doing them. That automatically qualifies them as odd." 

 

“Well, I mean, there’s nothing _wrong_ with being naked, I—ah, but you’ve been in Europe, yes? I heard they’re very body-shy over there,” Shiraishi says knowingly.

 

"Well, they certainly don't bathe together or anything over there…France is different, though. Or at least, the concept of sex is. Atobe was definitely like 11 when he started doing things. Ah, you're turning pink." 

 

“Eleven is--that’s very young,” Shiraishi stammers. “I mean,” he adds hastily, not wanting to somehow lose out on a competition to France, “not that there _aren’t_ very young children here who do things, probably, but I never _knew_ any--well, there was one girl, but she was expelled and they made her give the money back—”

 

"Do _you_ have a girlfriend, Kurarin?" Yukimura can't help but tease. Now he's on a roll and making Shiraishi turn all sorts of colors, which is always the best thing. "I already told you that you're really cute, so it seems like you would. Ah, is that why you don't want to go to the party? Are you afraid you'll be unfaithful?"

 

Damn it, Yukimura _always does this_ , always has, since they were just tiny kids. “I--well, no, not exactly—” (not at all, not even a little bit), “and you shouldn’t go around telling people they’re really cute, they’re going to want to--I just mean--I mean, Seiichi, you’re being awful, pick out my clothes already.”

 

Immediately, Yukimura settles into a pout. "You're no fun at all. I was just _curious_. If I were a girl, I'd date you. Alas," he sniffs, pulling out a few things from his closet, "I am unmistakably a male creature."

 

Shiraishi’s cheeks burn. “You’re a _good_ man, though,” he says softly, not looking at Yukimura. That probably isn’t the sort of thing he should say to someone who’s lived overseas--who knows how he’ll take it?--but the emotions are there nonetheless.

 

Yukimura's head cocks a little, contemplative. "…I'm not sure how you mean that," he admits with a quiet laugh, and he idly catches the collar of Shiraishi's shirt when he turns around, methodically undoing the buttons. "But thanks."

 

“I just mean—” What had he meant, anyway? Shiraishi sighs at himself, exasperated. “You said it like it was a bad thing, to be male. But, you know, you do it right.” So awkward. So, so awkward, and Yukimura is touching him.

 

"It was a joke. A bad one," Yukimura adds wryly, and he pinches one of Shiraishi's nipples for the hell of it. "My dad thinks I'm _super_ girly, so I'm sure he'd be interested in your opinion about how manly I am." 

 

Shiraishi lets out a squawk, and slaps at Yukimura’s hand. “Stop that! That’s--ow, Seiichi!” Not to be outdone at this weird wrestling Yukimura has apparently picked up, he reaches lower and pinches his hip, annoyingly aware that he hadn’t exactly upped the game, but unwilling to squeeze his balls or something just for the upper hand.

 

"Super whiny." Yukimura brushes his hand away dismissively and yanks Shiraishi's shirt off in short order. "I should give you to my mother to dress instead. She's always wanted you to model for her, remember?" 

 

“I’d be a bad model,” Shiraishi says automatically, his go-to reason for not agreeing to model. There’s just something so _calculating_ about the way Yukimura’s mom looks at him, and he’s never quite sure what to do about it. “Is that really good for going to a party?”

 

"You'd be a great model. You always look so innocent without trying. Here, put this on, you're so jumpy," Yukimura sighs, thrusting another shirt in his direction. "I told you, it's nothing fancy. You'll probably be ripping all of it off again if you want to get in the pool. Ah, your shoulders are broader than mine now, it might be a little tight." 

 

It’s more than a little tight, but Shiraishi manages, wriggling into it. All the thought of ripping clothes off is a little disturbing, but at least Seiichi will be there to make sure nothing bad happens to him. “Right, so it’s at Atobe-san’s house? I don’t suppose he’ll let us use the courts out back during the party?” he asks hopefully. Tennis sounds a lot more interesting than watching weird rich boys turn naked backflips.

 

Yukimura actually brightens at the idea. "Oh, he definitely would! God, that sounds so much better than watching him make out with Tezuka all night. He _does that_ , you know? He likes to show off way too much when he feels like he's in reliable company."

 

“Do I count as reliable company?” Shiraishi wonders, slightly baffled. “He’s never even met me.”

 

"If I'm bringing you, it's assumed," Yukimura says with a shrug. "Also, he knows you. Or your team, rather. It's already pretty…well. Gay." 

 

Shiraishi blinks. “Huh?”

 

Yukimura blinks back at him. "…Never mind. Let's just go." Whatever happens, happens.

 

Shiraishi had thought that Yukimura’s house was large and extravagant. He’d known that Atobe Manor would be larger still.

 

This, he hadn’t expected. 

 

“Welcome friends!” The words ring out from a chorus of butlers and maids, bowing and curtsying in unison, and their belongings are taken from them in a flurry that seems more appropriate for a musical. Shiraishi finds himself spun around a few times, then lead out back, paraded through striking hallways, a room of mirrors, statues, and what he’s fairly certain is a moat before he reaches what’s probably the party. Seiichi, damn him, looks entirely comfortable. “This is insane,” Shiraishi mutters. 

 

“There is glory yet in madness!” The ringing voice belongs to a young, strikingly handsome man that Shiraishi recognizes as Atobe Keigo, a wine glass in one hand and an arm around a young man Shiraishi’s pretty sure he knows from somewhere. “Welcome, my friends! Tonight’s theme is black and white, but the lighting will take care of that. Music!” 

 

There aren’t many attendees, probably fewer than twenty, but they all seem to know what they’re doing. Shiraishi finds himself, as soon as he’d expected, hovering around the drinks table.

 

"Can't you take it a little bit easy for once, Keigo? He's kind of a sheltered thing," Yukimura hisses underneath his breath. "You know, like _Tezuka?_ " Speak of the devil, and he's glared at immediately. "Oh, hello. It's been awhile." 

 

"Do you have to do this in public?" Tezuka mumbles, poking at Atobe's arm and obviously wishing he were anywhere but here. 

 

"If you _want_ to drink, I can get you something mild," Yukimura sighs to Shiraishi, giving up entirely when it comes to Atobe, because at his parties, there's really no point. "Honestly, it takes the edge off the ridiculousness, and tennis is kind of fun to play when you're tipsy." 

 

Shiraishi gives him a smile that he hopes says _Whatever happens, I’m ready!_ And not _Whatever happens, I will probably throw up!_

 

“Sure, something mild sounds good. But if I drink, I take no responsibility for not playing perfect tennis. Any impairment is significant when it comes to my Tennis Bible,” he says firmly.

 

“Of course, there are no adjudicated matches during parties!” Atobe declares. He wraps his arm more firmly around Tezuka’s waist, murmuring in his ear, “If it weren’t safe, I wouldn’t do it. It’s not _public_ , Kunimitsu.”

 

" _People_ make it public," Tezuka hisses, though he mostly settles back, albeit with a frown that borders very closely to a pout. 

 

Yukimura idly wonders if a Tennis Bible is akin somehow to Catholic guilt, what with how Shiraishi is so adamant about throwing away responsibility. "Just drink beer, there's not a lot of alcohol in it," he suggests, shoving a bottle in Shiraishi's direction. "Don't worry, if you throw up, I'll hold your hair back." Isn't he the _best_ friend ever? 

 

Shiraishi takes a drink, and tries not to grimace. It’s not _bad_ , especially not the aftertaste, and he drinks a few more sips in quick succession, trying not to look quite as out of place as he feels. “Thank you for having me,” he says finally to Atobe, bowing in gratitude. 

 

“Any friend of Seiichi’s is certainly a rare and intriguing creature,” Atobe says smoothly, and extends a hand instead, shaking Shiraishi’s firmly. “Don’t let me keep you, the night is ever so young. Music, drinking, dancing, and eating, as much as you want, and the pool is of course open, courtesy of my glorious self.”

 

“A-ah. To be sure.”

 

Yukimura rolls his eyes before he deftly plucks up a tray of appetizers--because Shiraishi is going to eat _something_ if he's going to drink, he doesn't want to hold his hair back while he's puking _that_ much--and a bottle of wine. "Let's just go play tennis. We can swim afterwards, that's the best part--maybe you'll even have some tips for me, you've always been able to pick apart my mistakes better than anyone, right, Kura?" 

 

Relief courses through Shiraishi, and he nods so fast he starts to feel some little slowing effect of the alcohol on his motor reflexes. Hmm, interesting. His brain feels fine, but when he moves his head….

 

He moves it again, a few more times, just to be safe. Yes, there’s definitely some sort of delayed reaction. Is this what happens when people drink? That’s _fascinating_. Forward, back, and there’s absolutely a small delay. 

 

“Before anyone asks,” Atobe says lightly, “I didn’t put anything in the beer. It’s 5% alcohol at most.”

 

Yukimura swiftly grabs Shiraishi by the arm and pulls him along. "You're going to eat something," he sweetly informs him. "Immediately. And you're going to drink _slowly_ , that's how you make it fun, okay?" Ahh, he remembers now, why he never thought to bring Shiraishi along to this sort of thing since he returned to Japan properly. 

 

Food sounds downright _great_ , and Shiraishi grabs a little... _something_...off of a passing tray. “This is magnificent!” he says, careful to keep his voice at an appropriate volume--though who knows what that is, with the music blasting. “I’m sorry I suspected bad intentions, Seiichi. You’re a good friend.”

 

Yukimura's eyes roll skyward. "I told you nothing bad would happen to you here," he murmurs, pressing a hand at Shiraishi's lower back to urge him out of the main room and actually outside, with fresh air abounding. "If you want to get drunk, that's fine, you know. I'll take care of you." _No promises about not getting drunk with you, though._

 

The smile on Shiraishi’s face is just shy of beatific. “A very good friend,” he repeats, and feels much better for it. He also feels much better for going _outside_ , and breathes deep in the night air. “I don’t think I’ll be very good at that,” he says, a bit chagrined. “But I don’t mind dancing a bit?” Yes, he can dance. Everyone at school _loves_ it when he dances.

 

And again, Yukimura is reminded as to why he never takes Shiraishi anywhere. Ah, well. It's nothing half a bottle of wine can't fix, and he uncorks the thing with gusto to pour himself a glass. "That's not a thing you have to do," Yukimura firmly tells him, and sits Shiraishi down into one of the chairs at the poolside. "Just enjoy spending time with me. Isn't the air outside of Tokyo better than Osaka?" He downs that first glass of wine quickly, and starts on his second soon after. Nights like this are necessary, when he's reminded of failure and the assholes that make up Rikkai's tennis club. 

 

“It’s more….tangy,” Shiraishi decides, tasting the air as Yukimura sort of forcibly sits him down. “I can taste the pollution. At least it’s nice and cool. Ah, what was it like in England, Seiichi? Was it really always foggy?”

 

"Only some parts of it are like that. It can be really sunny and warm, too." Yukimura squishes himself into the chair next to Shiraishi and takes a long sip of his wine, cradling the bottle between his thighs. "Don't _taste_ the air, just breathe it. Otherwise, that's weird. At least it's not so humid here. In Osaka, it feels like I'm swimming when I'm just walking around."

 

Shiraishi looks over, eyeing the wine bottle and wondering just how weird it would be to grab it. Just to take a sip, of course. Not because it’s between his friend’s thighs. No, that’s super weird. He leans back instead, looking up at the night sky. “It’s nice not to have it be so humid,” he admits, “but I feel my lips cracking here. Does the humidity affect your tennis game, do you find?”

 

"Heat in general seems to. I hate it." Yukimura pushes his glass in Shiraishi's direction encouragingly and leans his weight into the other boy's side. "Try it, you can at least say you've had really expensive wine after this, even if you hate it. It's really easy to get drunk on, too."

 

Shiraishi hesitates, but he takes the wine glass anyway. “I was starting to feel normal again,” he murmurs, looking at the swirl of the liquid in the bottom of the glass. It’s a lot prettier than any liquid has a right to be, and he wonders if it’ll stain his lips like makeup. He’s afraid now to look at Seiichi to see if it’s done that to his. “You were getting annoyed. I don’t want to be a bother, I’ll have water.”

 

"I wasn't getting _annoyed_. You're just a lightweight," Yukimura teases, leaning over further to hook his chin against Shiraishi's shoulder. "I didn't want anyone else to give you a hard time about it, but we're out here and no one's bothering us, so you can drink as much as you want. Come on, share the bottle with me or I'll have to drink it all myself." 

 

Shiraishi relents, taking a long sip. This is better than the beer, even if it is a little more acidic than grapey and he’d expected it the other way around. He doesn’t even realize how strong it is until he tries to speak, and finds his vocal chords paralyzed for a second. “It’s--kind of sweet,” he manages. God, he hopes Seiichi doesn’t get annoyed. He’s always annoyed these days.

 

"Good, though, right? Ahh, I prefer a white, but Keigo at least always brings out the nicest reds when I'm around…" Yukimura muses, uncorking the bottle in his lap again to top off the glass. "It's better that we're drinking together. I'm not the best with alcohol either," he confides, stealing the glass back with a gentle tug, his fingers briefly resting over Shiraishi's. "I can't tease you too much about it." 

 

Shiraishi relaxes into a grin, his head tipping down onto Yukimura’s shoulder. “That’s good. We can be awful together. Ah, I just don’t want to embarrass you in front of all these…” He’s not even really sure what to say. Foreigners? Rich people? It’s neither of those things, he doesn’t _care_ about those things.

 

"They're just Keigo's friends. And his awkward nerd boyfriend." A sniff follows that, and Yukimura butts his head against Shiraishi's. "I've become anti-social in my old age, I think. Or perhaps just unfunny."

 

Shiraishi refrains from pointing out that he doesn’t _know_ Keigo, that saying “just Keigo’s friends” doesn’t actually mean anything to him. “I think you’re funny,” he volunteers. “You’d have fit in well at Shitenhouji. Everyone loves jokes there,” he finishes, a little wistfully.

 

"Would they call me 'Yankee-kun' there, too?" Yukimura downs half the glass at remembering that, then the other half a few moments later thinking about Sanada Genichirou and the disdain on his face every single time they're in the same room. He pours more, and thrusts the glass in Shiraishi's direction. At least someone can take part in hating everything (except Shiraishi hates nothing, is probably incapable of it).

 

“Uh, probably not? We don’t go in for mean nicknames at Shitenhouji.” Shiraishi downs some more of the wine, not sure if he’s supposed to catch up or what, and nuzzles against Yukimura’s cheek. He’s not drunk, feels nothing yet, but Yukimura is just sort of….there, and nice to nuzzle. “Are you really unhappy? Are people being mean to you?”

 

Yukimura frowns. He doesn't like the idea of saying he's unhappy, or that people are being _mean_ to him. It sounds pathetic to his ears, like he's some bullied four year old that cries on a playground, which he's never been and never will be. 

 

Still--he hates the fact that he can't say a word without their noses being turned up, or that the only person that gives him any time out of the day is the _weirdo_ in the Singles 2 slot who might just be interested in getting a quick fuck. 

 

He settles on not thinking about it. Shiraishi is warm and solid and comforting, and Yukimura is suddenly very glad that he brought him along. He takes another, slower sip of wine, and rubs his face back against Shiraishi's cheek in kind. "I just want to go back to England," he admits. "Everyone here just thinks I'm a weird foreigner, and I don't get to play tennis, so what's the point? Ah, not that I'm good enough to compete in England's circuit again right now, but…" _I might actually want to_. 

 

Shiraishi tries not to offer him another chance to come back. If he wanted to come to Shitenhouji, he’d have managed. Not that he can really blame him for not wanting to, of course. Shitenhouji isn’t exactly Rikkai Dai Fuzoku. 

 

Still, he seems so _sad_.

 

Shiraishi does the only think he can think of, and turns around, tugging Yukimura closer in a hug and resting his chin on the boy’s shoulder. “Tell me about England.”

 

"That's boring, you don't really want to know," Yukimura protests, even as he flops into Shiraishi's chest and dangles his wine glass back over his shoulder. "I just…I miss the _weather_ , and _all_ the food and there's so much lovely art and architecture and the _theatre_ \--there's nothing like any of it here in Japan, even in Tokyo. Everything's so…no matter what you do, it's still just Japanese. Which is _fine_ , but…" He huffs, nosing his face into Shiraishi's neck. "You'd like it. I want to take a trip back over Golden Week, maybe you can come. If my parents let me." They won't, even if he goes with Atobe. 

 

Shiraishi tips a bit more wine into his mouth, and doesn’t even grimace that time. “I heard,” he murmurs, stroking his fingers through Seiichi’s hair in an attempt to calm his upset friend, “that in England and America, all the Italian restaurants are run by Italians, and the French restaurants are run by Frenches. Is that real?”

 

" _Yes_ \--ugh, and there's _such_ a difference, you wouldn't even believe it." Yukimura actually has to giggle at that--ah, damn it, he's definitely getting drunk now, when things are funny that shouldn't be--and he leans back, grabbing a little at Shiraishi's face. "Pizza in Japan," he solemnly says, "is _not_ real pizza. It's gross." 

 

“It’s not?” Shiraishi blinks. Even that little movement seems to be quite a production, and he does it again, fascinated by gravity. “What is it, if--no, I’ve eaten it, it’s real. Not fake. We have good pizza in Osaka, they use great corn and mayonnaise!”

 

"Those things don't belong on pizza! That's not pizza!" Yukimura insists, and he gives Shiraishi another little shake before snatching the wine glass back and downing what's left in it. "One of the days, I'm going to make you eat real pizza. You'll see, Kurarin, _you'll see_." 

 

Shiraishi ignores him and grabs the wine bottle. “Tastes good on pizza,” he mutters rebelliously. “I don’t like the Italian kind, anyway. It seems weird to have cheese and spaghetti on pizza.”

 

"That's not pizza either!" Yukimura makes a grab for the wine bottle himself, only to give up and just scoot himself into Shiraishi's lap for easier access to it in the long run. "Everyone that grows up in Japan has a really weird palate. I don't like it. I'm going to make you properly cultured, you just wait."

 

Shiraishi is pretty sure that spaghetti and cheese is definitely pizza, but he’s feeling magnanimous, so he lets it go. “You maybe just came back really picky?” he suggests. “Have you tried our takoyaki? I promise, no matter what palate, you’ll love it. Ah, don’t say you don’t love my mother’s takoyaki!”

 

Yukimura glowers at him. "I'm not picky, I just have good taste. Your mother's takoyaki is good. It isn't that I don't dislike Japanese food, I just wish it wasn't all the _same_ …" He paws at the wine bottle as he buries his face into Shiraishi's neck. "At least you smell good. That part is good."

 

“s’not all the same!” Shiraishi says indignantly. “Takoyaki isn’t anything like ramen, right?  Or, or like ice cream? Or natto?” He says the last triumphantly. It’s _nothing_ like natto. “What good English foods are there?”

 

"All the foods," Yukimura sighs, and he eyes the arc of Shiraishi's throat, where his Adam's apple bobs when he talks and swallows. He considers biting. "You'd be a good food," he murmurs, opting for licking the lobe of Shiraishi's ear instead. That's slightly better than biting right off the bat. 

 

That’s a lot of good foods, all the foods. Shiraishi opens his mouth to say something about that intelligent, when Seiichi’s _tongue_ flicks out against his ear, and he giggles instead. “That’s my ear,” he says, as if it were an accident. Well, maybe it is. Seiichi is obviously drunk. “You’re...you’re licky.” Oh, dear. He can hear the words coming out weird. No, stop, that’s wrong, he’s not drunk. He can _hear_ that they’re weird, he wouldn’t be able to do that if he were drunk...right? Ah, he’ll just have to be more careful. “Licky,” he says again. Dammit, that’s not right, either. Or is it?

 

"Usually," Yukimura says, laughing when he wriggles closer, grabbing at the wine bottle to take a last swig directly from it before setting it down, "I'm bitey. Nn, but, Kura, you've got such nice skin, I don't wanna mess it up." It seems like a great idea to snuggle up closer to his friend, especially when he's not exactly _arguing_ about it. Yukimura slides a hand up to his chest, feeling every inhale, increasingly unsteady, and he lets his teeth catch that same ear again, no matter what he's just said. 

 

Shiraishi wraps his arms around Yukimura, holding him close. He’s had a hard couple of years, from what he’s heard back in Japan, so a few eccentricities are to be forgiven. “I had to work with one of my teammates about that,” he says fondly, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the fact that Yukimura is sort of chewing on his ear. It’s….strange. Not _bad_ , but strange. Kind of...ah. Well. Maybe he won’t feel it. How embarrassing. _Go away. No one wants you here, god. Go aWAY._ All the aggressive thoughts in the world don’t seem to convince his penis, which is really kind of rude.

 

"I _like_ being bitey." And usually, he receives few if any complaints about it. Atobe's whining about marks doesn't count. Judging by the heat he can feel pressing into his thigh, there aren't any complaints here, either, and Yukimura savors that little lightheaded rush of heat that creeps down his own spine, equal parts from alcohol and eager arousal. "We can go inside if you want," he breathes, scooting forward to drag his thigh up more firmly between Shiraishi's legs. "I'll lock Keigo out of his own bedroom, it'll be great." 

 

Shiraishi slides down in the chair so far only his head is propped up, bending his neck at a very awkward angle. “U-um,” he says, voice high-pitched, “S-Seiichi--I think I’m drunk.” _You said you’d take care of me and everything is really confusing_ , he adds, then realizes he’d spoken aloud.

 

Yukimura huffs, sits back, and grabs at Shiraishi's arm to haul him up. "I _am_ taking care of you. I'm drunk, too, so it's fine," he insists, stumbling to his feet with only the slightest of wobbles. Yeah. He's got this. "Come on, Kura, I'm not gonna let anything bad happen to you. It's just _me_." 

 

Shiraishi hesitates, pulls back on his hands for a minute. This doesn’t feel quite _right_. Seiichi is drunk, and he’s always had some kind of odd ideas. But it’s still _Seiichi_ , and everything sort of turns out right when Shiraishi goes along with his ideas…usually. 

 

Slowly, he lets himself be tugged up, and into the house. “I’m trusting you,” he says, then stumbles when all the wine suddenly rushes to his head as he finally stands up. “I’m--Seiichi, I’m not drunk, but I think--I think I’m a little _drunk_.” He lurches forward, arms draped over Yukimura’s from behind. “Trusting you,” he mumbles.

 

That's good, because no one else seems to trust him nowadays. Yukimura isn't sure how that happened between getting sick in England and now. He's never been a captain, never led a team, but he was respected and _friends_ with everyone else that played tennis in his division, and that was more than enough. 

 

Shiraishi is one of what feels like the only three friends he has left, so it's very, very good that he trusts him.

 

He's not joking about locking Atobe out of his bedroom. He knows his way around the manor well enough now, and it only takes a bit of trial and error and tugging Shiraishi along to find the right place before he topples them both into the bed. His hands wrap up in Shiraishi's hair, a breathy, hitching giggle lost when he leans up to kiss the other boy's neck, his ear, maybe his mouth, though he misses a little. "It's okay if we're both drunk," he murmurs. "It's fine. Feels good, right? Take your shirt off, it's too tight." 

 

Shiraishi nods without knowing what he’s nodding to, breathing heavy, excited. “Been too tight for a while,” he mutters, and it’s true, Yukimura’s shoulders are a lot more narrow than his own.

 

But….

 

He struggles out of his shirt, and collapses back onto the bed with a sigh. “Seiichi,” he says, sort of puzzled, “You’re kissing me.” God, that’s funny, so he laughs, even as his cock starts to swell. Well, that can’t be helped, he’s being kissed, and Yukimura is...ah, god, so pretty.

 

Yukimura rolls after him, wriggling on top of him and kissing him again--properly this time, on the mouth with a bite to his lower lip that he turns into a long, pulling suck. "You're nice to kiss," he sighs out, eyes lidded as he wriggles up between Shiraishi's thighs. Feeling Shiraishi's cock hardening between them makes him _whine_ , and he scratches his nails lazily up the bare skin of his chest. "You like it, right? Because I like it a lot." 

 

“I…”

 

Well, he doesn’t _hate_ it. He’s thought about it, a little bit--not a lot, but Yukimura had come back from England so _lovely_ , with a delicate face and a sweet little laugh and mischief in his eyes, and that had been kind of confusing. And this is much more confusing, because he’s not _really_ sure what’s going on, even though he’s definitely not drunk, not if he can think so clearly. _Definitely_ not.

 

He reaches out, carding his hands through Yukimura’s hair (bumping against his face first, whoops), and asks softly, “Do you like me?” Ah, a stupid question, but he does want to know the answer. This needs to be _real_ , not just drunk.

 

A low rumble wells from Yukimura's throat, and he bumps his head into Shiraishi's hands, his nose rubbing against his cheek. "Always liked you, Kura," he sighs out through his nose, and he paws a little up through Shiraishi's hair, too, tugging him up into another kiss that actually presses their lips properly together. "You're like…the only good thing about Japan. Mostly. But you're far _away_ , so you have to stay with me tonight." 

 

Well. That makes sense. 

 

It makes enough sense, and Shiraishi’s never been so close to someone, never felt them so warm, so insistent, so forbidden and exciting against his lips. His pulse pounds in his ears, and he lurches up into the next kiss, whole body bending, back arched in a bow to bring his body in contact with the other boy’s. He nods between kisses, a little wild, a little shy. “I’ll...I’ll stay with you tonight.”

 

 _Good_ might be the thing breathed between kisses, or maybe that's just the hitching, breathy sound of Yukimura's approval when Shiraishi arches up against him. His hips twitch down, his hands needy and grabby when they drag down Shiraishi's sides, fingers curling against his hips before one wriggles between them, palming over the hard line of his cock through his pants. "You ever done this before? With a girl, even?" Even drunk, Yukimura _knows_ it hasn't been with another boy. 

 

Shiraishi’s breath hitches, goes up into a breathy whine, and he tries to laugh. It doesn’t come out very relaxed, as his hips thrust up against Yukimura’s hand. “Had a girl touch my--n-no, never.” He doesn’t have to ask if Yukimura has. He can see it in his eyes, feel it in the confidence of his touch, and thank _god_ one of them knows what they’re doing, because he sure doesn’t.

 

Yukimura has a great joke about how _well, I haven't had a girl touch mine either_ but that would go straight over Shiraishi's head and beyond right then. He giggles at his own joke instead, muffling the sound into Shiraishi's shoulder with a slow, nibbling bite. "Good. I like being first." His fingers are less than graceful when it comes to buttons and zippers, but he manages to wriggle a hand down Shiraishi's pants all the same. "You want me to put my mouth on it, Kura?" he breathes, pulling on the lobe of an ear with a long, wet suck. 

 

Shiraishi can’t even speak. He gasps for air already, just from the hand skillfully making its way into his pants, teasing at the head of his cock. “Please,” he rasps, his own voice so much lower than he remembers it being. 

 

He realizes, from a half-vague stupor, that he should probably do something rather than just laying here like a dead fish. He looks up at Yukimura, trying to decide where to put his hands, and settles for around the other boy’s body, resting lightly on his back. Nothing wrong with that, right?

 

Shiraishi is _easy_.

 

Yukimura likes that. It's easy to make him squirm, easy to make him squeak and to make his voice break, and easier still to rile him up and make him _want_. He steals another, quick bite before wriggling his way down, grabbing at Shiraishi's hands to urge them into his hair. It feels _good_ having them there when he's tugging Shiraishi's pants down properly, when he's nuzzling at lean thighs and up again to his cock. What's the point of a condom when Shiraishi is _so_ very much a virgin? And so hard, and he tastes _good_ , which Yukimura can tell from one, needy lap to the head of his cock that makes his eyes roll into the back of his head. 

 

“ _Seiichi_!”

 

The feel of Yukimura’s hot wet tongue on the head of his cock makes Shiraishi almost scream, and he turns his head, biting his fist at the second lick. His hands feel awkward and huge in Yukimura’s hair, so lovely and unique, and he tentatively curls his fingers, hoping he’s not being horribly rude for wanting him to take _more_. “I can’t,” he pleads, hips rutting up and bumping the head of his cock against Yukimura’s lips.

 

Yukimura groans, lending himself to the tug eagerly. His lips part, wrapping around the head of Shiraishi's cock, and ah, god, Shiraishi probably has no idea what it does to him to feel his hands curling into his hair, urging him _down_ , no matter how shyly. He'd tell him directly not to be so shy, but better is swallowing more of him down, letting his cock slide over the wriggling, slick heat of his tongue when Yukimura sucks and slurps and to _hell_ with finesse when he knows it feels good either way and his own cock is so hard that he has to reach a hand down to grind into his own palm.

 

If this is what sex feels like, there’s no wonder so many people do it, Shiraishi thinks wildly, nails scraping gently across Yukimura’s scalp. There’s a sweet release of tension like he’s never felt, all wrapped up in the rapidly building tension shooting through his body with every lick, every _drag_ of that lewd tongue, every—

 

With a shout, Shiraishi is lost, hips jerking in ragged, uneven thrusts as he spills without meaning to, gasping, “Sorry, s-sorr--oh, _god_!”

 

Drawing back, Yukimura tries not to cough, which is easier said than done when Shiraishi spills hot and messy over his tongue, dripping out over his lips. He wipes his mouth with a lingering shudder, tongue flicking out over his swollen lower lip before he slides his way back up, kicking his pants off on the way. "Don't apologize." His own cock is slick and dripping when it slides against Shiraishi's thigh, and Yukimura bites at his throat again, liking how _easy_ it is to mark up all that untouched skin. "You're _really_ fun to be with, Kura, so it's fiiiine." 

 

“Am I?” There’s a breathy, excited uncertainty in the tone, and Shiraishi swears he’s gonna stop being an idiot and start being fucking brave. He rolls them over, taking Yukimura’s face in his hands and kissing him thoroughly, the way he’s seen on TV. He kisses him even when there’s an odd taste on his lips, and he knows it’s himself, which...probably doesn’t bother him as much as it should, all things considered. The way they’re pressed together makes up for a lot, and he ruts slowly against Yukimura, letting their bodies undulate together, loving the slick drag of the other boy’s hard cock against his thigh. “You’re fun, too, Seiichi.”

 

Yukimura's hands drag down Shiraishi's back, curling his nails in to rake lines down his spine. He grabs handfuls of Shiraishi's ass when he lurches up for another, insistent kiss, panting out hot breaths between them as his cock grinds slowly up against him. " _Really_ wanna put it in you," he admits breathlessly. "Don't know if I'll make it, though. Feels too good like this--ahh--you'll…you'll let me do it later, won't you, Kura?" 

 

Shiraishi nods mindlessly. Fuck, why _not_? Everything else Yukimura does feels like _this_ , and he lurches down, bringing his thigh up between Yukimura’s, dragging against the hot slick weight of his cock. “I want to feel it,” he breathes, teeth scraping against the other boy’s lower lip. He’d never imagined that they’d be here--but now that they are, he never wants it to end.

 

Yukimura _squirms_ , his head falling back with a ragged gasp when he ruts up, cock throbbing with every slick, aching slide. There's _no way_ he's going to make it to actually fucking Shiraishi, but that's _fine,_ he dimly decides, because he has handfuls of Shiraishi's ass and his mouth on that bitten up neck and some wriggling lets his cock slide up the cleft of the other boy's ass, the head of his cock rubbing against his hole, dripping and hard enough to make his eyes cross. 

 

"You'd feel perfect inside," Yukimura groans, biting his lip when he _knows_ it would just take a little bit more push to put it in, to feel how tight and wriggly Shiraishi would be around him, but he's drunk and too-riled already and who _cares_ when this is already good. He spills with a ragged, breathless noise, dripping over Shiraishi's ass and thighs, and _that_ is almost more satisfying than being inside of him. 

 

For better or for worse, Yukimura makes a quick exit the next morning. 

 

For better: his head is pounding, and he wants out of Atobe's mansion as soon as possible. The smell of breakfast makes him nauseated, and Atobe's staff is quick about calling a driver around for him. For worse: Tezuka is an early riser, and glaring at him from where he has made a nest on the nearest couch, undoubtedly for not being able to curl up in Atobe's particularly comfortable bed where Shiraishi is still passed out.

 

There could have been worse nights, all things considered. He'll have to catch up with Shiraishi later or something.

 

Yukimura curls up at home, sleeps off the hangover until noon, and starts dreading school the next day. Golden Week is just temporary relief after all. _Nothing_ is going to make his classes go away, or make it easier to stomach not being able to play tennis on a bloody school team. 

 

Nothing makes him less irritated with Sanada's presence either, especially when _he_ is the one accompanying the asshole on every song in music class. He doesn't even _want_ to keep playing the piano, anyway. 

 

The worst thing comes with seeing his midterm scores in half of his science courses, and knowing, just _knowing_ nothing good will come of this. Yukimura's premonition is right when he hears he is to be assigned a tutor, of all ridiculous things, but it's almost a blessing that it means he'll miss another glorious day of _swing practice_ because he has to bring his grades up again before he can even touch a tennis court. 

 

Honestly, he hates his life. 

 

The library is cold, and kind of dark, and Yukimura stalks through it with a scowl that he doubts is becoming. He hopes his tutor is at _least_ as annoyed by this idea as he is, so that he can just have the whole thing signed off on and leave and forget about it. He isn't ever going to get to play tennis for this school, anyway, so what do the grades matter? He's going to leave, go back to Europe, and be _done_ with his godforsaken country.

 

In theory. 

 

God, he wishes it were a better theory, but right now, sitting at the table he's supposed to meet his tutor at is one Sanada Genichirou, and Yukimura wants to throw a book at his head. "Move," he sighs, dropping down his bag onto the table. "I'm meeting someone here."

 

Sanada favors Yukimura with a glare he usually reserves for people who talk at the theater. Once again, he curses his own good nature. Surely, offering to do his teacher a favor without first asking what it was hasn’t been his _best_ idea, though he can’t imagine himself making a different choice, were the choice his to make once more. There’s just something _wrong_ with the idea of refusing a favor to a teacher, not to mention how his grandfather would react. 

 

Instead of moving, he just moves his bookbag aside, pulling out his science textbook, his notes, and another spare notebook for Yukimura--who knows if someone who’s failing Chemistry even has a notebook? It’s best to be prepared for these things--before looking up at him. “Sit down. We have a lot of work to do.”

 

Yukimura offers him a long stare. "You're _kidding_ me," he mutters, and he heaves a long sigh as he yanks out the log sheet to toss it in front of Sanada. "Look, let's save one another a lot of agony; just sign where it says we did the tutoring thing. I know what I'm doing, anyway." 

 

Sanada stares at him as if he’s grown an extra head. “Sit down. We’re starting with ionic and covalent bonds. I brought a notebook in case you’re unprepared.”

 

For not the first time, Yukimura considers punching him. Instead of doing that or sitting down, he reaches into his own bag, yanks out his notebook, and sets that in front of Sanada as well. "I _said_ I know what I'm doing, my homework's already done. The only reason I'm failing is because I haven't been going to class, which isn't your problem, so just sign the form and end your suffering."

 

Sanada gives his notebook a cursory examination. At least he’s got a notebook. “If I sign off on tutoring you and you don’t ace Chemistry, my reputation suffers. It’s unbecoming to refuse an order from your teacher, so sit down.”

 

Yukimura's eyes roll to the ceiling, and he drops himself down into a chair. It isn't a display of obedience by any stretch of the imagination; it's far more the idea of deliberately failing again just to ruin Sanada's reputation that comes to mind. "God forbid if I'm _unbecoming,_ Sanada-sensei. Ah, that's no good. Genichirou-sensei is better." 

 

Sanada’s lip curls, and he sets the textbook down hard, opening it to the start of the current chapter. “You shame your whole family. I’ve never met anyone who was so convinced that he was special and important.”

 

Yukimura props his chin into one hand, peering back at Sanada with his eyes lidded in boredom. "My family is quite proud of me, thank you. _They_ think I'm very special and important."

 

Sanada looks at him, looks _through_ him, and isn’t impressed. “I don’t. And I won’t give you allowances just because you think you’re funny, so sit down and do your work or you’ll be expelled from Rikkai. This isn’t a school for slackers.”

 

"You know where you'd be a big hit? Parties." _Parties where I can shove you into a pool and drown you._ "I thought it was your job to make sure I wasn't expelled, or it would reflect badly on you. I already don't like you because you won't play tennis with me, so maybe I just won't do my work, either."

 

Sanada slams the book shut. He stands up, towering over the slight young man, and shoves the book and notebooks back in his bag. “Fine. You would rather make a fool out of yourself than spend your time at school learning, and I don’t want to waste my time on a lazy, self-centered princess. Get expelled, if that’s what you want.”

 

The annoying thing about Sanada is he doesn't take hints, and because that, he doesn't ever _bend_. Yukimura's lips purse as he leans back in his chair. "Barring that, you could play tennis with me, and then I'll actually do my work. Or do you really think I'm so awful because I lost to you? I'll play you again right now." 

 

“There’s no point.” Sanada’s frustration melts into disgust, and he shoulders his bag. “You obviously never take anything seriously. You didn’t even take that seriously, the way you threw a tantrum afterward. No one who truly loves the game can be such a poor sport.”

 

"For someone that seems so stupidly centered on _honor_ , you're awfully fast to make assumptions about people, which seems like a pretty _dishonorable_ thing to do," Yukimura snaps back in short order. He snatches his own notebook back up and grabs for his bag. "If _you_ took it seriously, you'd still be playing, so don't accuse me of anything." 

 

Sanada’s eyes narrow, and he sets his bag down heavily. “Call me dishonorable again,” he says, voice soft and menacing.

 

Yukimura's eyebrows raise. "Tell me I don't take tennis seriously again," he quietly retorts, "and I'll say worse things about you and your so-called honor." 

 

“You talk big,” Sanada says, eyes glittering hard and unrelenting as he takes another step forward, “for someone that couldn’t even beat me. Say one more thing and I’ll challenge you to a real duel.”

 

"I already told you I'd play you again right now." Yukimura doesn't move save to shoulder his own bag. "You didn't hear me make a single excuse for losing, did you? Just play me again or play doubles with me and stop _assuming_ I'm a piece of shit for getting mad that I lost when I wasn't mad at _you_." Well, for the being outclassed part of the equation, at least. 

 

“I have a doubles partner,” Sanada answers shortly, “and losing to me again won’t help you. It won’t even get you in the ranking tournament. Why do you care so much, anyway? You don’t act like it, most of the time.”

 

"I'm not telling you to play tennis with me forever, just until--" _These idiots can see that I'm good and I don't even have to look at you anymore to prove myself._ Yukimura grinds his teeth slowly. "You know what? Never mind. For all your talk about trying to better me and encourage me not to _bring shame on my family_ , you really don't give a damn about anyone but yourself." 

 

Sanada slams his bookbag on the table, feeling his hands clench into fists before he can stop himself, remember about _meditation_ , and letting his anger go. “I volunteered to give up my afternoon because I _thought_ you wanted _help_. You just want to snipe and tear and pick at everyone. You were the one who said you wouldn’t do any work out of spite, or have you changed your mind?”

 

You _just want all of the teachers to kiss your ass more than they already do because you're 'helping the foreigner.'_ God, what if that isn't true, though? What if Sanada is really that much of a goddamn saint? The thought makes Yukimura shudder a little bit. "I don't _need_ to be tutored. What I _need_ is for you to just play tennis with me already--then I'll do all the bloody chemistry in the world, if that's what you want. I'll fucking win our matches, too, no matter how much you seem to think I can't." 

 

Sanada’s eyes narrow. “I,” he says quietly, “Don’t care. I won’t play with someone else, I have another partner. Why does someone who thinks he’s as smart as you not go to class, anyway?” It doesn’t make _sense_ \--nothing about Yukimura Seiichi does, and it makes Sanada want to throw something.

 

Yukimura wants to reach over and grab Sanada by the throat. "I," he snipes right back, "don't _like_ chemistry. That's why I don't go. And if you have a partner, then maybe you should play with them already instead of wasting your talent." 

 

Sanada moves fast, before he can really stop himself, and changes direction only at the last second, slamming his hand sideways into the bookcase. The books rattle, but he pulls enough of the blow that none of them fall over. “What I do with my _talent_ is none of your concern.” God, he could be practicing kendo right now, or judo, or even his calligraphy. “I’m here to teach you how to pass Chemistry, not to hear a lecture from someone who thinks rackets don’t matter.”

 

"They don't, if you have enough ability--the tools don't make the artist." _You idiot_ is on the tip of his tongue, but Yukimura bites it back in favor of shoving his chair away from the table entirely. "I already told you that I know how to pass and I don't need your help. If you'd just sign the damn form already, we'd be done with this, but you're too much of a kiss-ass to lie about something you don't want to do anyway!" 

 

Sanada almost _hits_ the asshole, but he stops himself just in time, his grandfather’s voice ringing in his ears. There’s no reason to be the one losing control; that’s Yukimura’s shame, not his own. He takes a deep breath, then sits down, carefully opening his Chemistry book. “If I sign the form, it means you’ve completed an hour’s worth of Chemistry tutoring. I’ll start the clock as soon as you tell me the difference between ionic and covalent bonds.”

 

Yukimura grits his teeth, and barely stops himself from kicking the side of Sanada's chair. "If I tell you the difference, does that mean I can leave you sitting here looking pathetic and all alone, and you'll still sign it?" 

 

“If you perform an hour’s worth of Chemistry learning, I don’t care what you do afterwards.” Sanada _might_ accidentally mutter something to the effect of, “Fall off a cliff if you want, I’ll help.”

 

Yukimura _does_ kick Sanada's chair when he sits back down with an exasperated thud. If he can't beat him at this game, then he'll just make Sanada regret playing it. "Covalent bonds share electrons, ionic bonds lose or gain them. Play tennis with me after this, no one else will except Niou and he's not as good as you."  

 

Sanada wants to kick something over. Exasperated with himself, he finally asks, “If I agree to just play doubles with you, will you actually put some effort into this? You’re _smart_ , you shouldn’t throw away your future because you’re throwing a fit over a stupid game!”

 

"Why are you so sure I'm throwing a fit?" Yukimura frowns at him, and shoves his chin firmly into one hand. "I want to be on Rikkai's tennis team because I don't have any other chances unless I change schools or go back _home_ , and that's not going to happen at this point. What's so wrong with wanting that, especially when tennis is more important to me than this ridiculous class?" He exhales a long, aggravated breath. "If you play doubles with me, though, I'll do whatever you want. I don't care."

 

Akaya probably won’t mind, Sanada tells himself, even though he knows it likely isn’t true. Akaya’s a bit immature that way, and rarely thinks things through properly. Well, maybe this will be good for him. “One year,” he says, and it sounds as if he’s signing that year of his life away. If Yukimura were no good, he’d never bother with this. “Then my partner will be at this school, and I owe him better than to abandon our partnership.”

 

Yukimura stares back at him, disbelieving. "You're serious. You're not just telling me this to make me actually sit through a chem class."

 

Sanada’s eyes narrow. “Call me a liar again.”

 

"Touchy. If you're a man of your word, then you're a man of your word." Yukimura pauses, and idly asks, "Do you and your regular partner have a thing or something? I'm not going to get rocks thrown through my window because of a jealous boyfriend or anything, right?" 

 

The look Sanada gives him is nothing less than disgusted. The thought of Akaya like that makes him gag slightly. “Keep your mind on Chemistry. And on tennis when you’re playing that. I don’t want to have to tutor you in that as well.”

 

And here he was hoping for a more vivid reaction when it came to the boyfriend card. Oh well. "You don't have to tutor me on _anything_ , I know all of it." Yukimura sighs, and pokes at Sanada's ankle with his toes. "Quiz me while we're actually playing tennis or something, that's more productive." 

 

“Don’t touch me. I never agreed to that.” God, he wants to throw this man out a window. Why had he agreed to this, again? “Do you honestly think you can focus on more than one thing at once? You act like you need to be on medication, with all that bouncing around.”

 

"That's probably the Red Bull; it reacts badly with the medication I'm already on," Yukimura sweetly supplies, and he gives Sanada's leg another prod. "I will start reciting the periodic table at you and you'll learn to hate this as much as I do." 

 

“We’re not studying the periodic table, this isn’t seventh grade,” Sanada growls, and stands, shoving his books in his bag. Ah, well, they might as well get some exercise. “I’ll name two elements every time I hit the ball. If you can’t return the ball _and_ name the reaction, you forfeit a point. Deal?”

 

"Deal." Yukimura's eyes gleam as he snatches his own bag up from the table, and he considers, briefly, that Sanada might not be _so_ awful. Just stuffy, but isn't that everyone Japanese? And at least he's playing _tennis_ with him now. "Do me a favor, though, and don't make faces like you _hate_ the idea of playing with me so much. We're going to be doubles partners, and I'm pretty sure our opponents will see all that rage." 

 

Sanada starts to retort, but catches sight of his face in a passing window as he does. Ah. Yes. That’s a Face. “Sorry,” he mutters, and pulls his cap down over his fringe of hair in front. “I don’t like slackers. If you show me you’ll work hard, I’ll…” God, he can’t even finish the sentence.

 

"You'll?" Yukimura presses, trotting up next to him with a smirk. Sanada might be bigger than him, but he's faster, and snatching that hat right off is an easy task when Sanada least expects it. "There's a difference between _slacking_ and picking and choosing what one wants to do," he hums, turning the hat over in his hands. "Also, like I've told you, I don't like chemistry. That's the only reason I failed." 

 

Sanada can see no option but to allow the snatch or protest against it like a child, so he stuffs his hands in his pockets, stalking towards the court. “Do you always fail at everything you don’t like? That’s no way to go through life. You have to eat your vegetables along with dessert.”

 

Yukimura shrugs. "Considering I'm a vegetarian, I like my vegetables just fine," he deadpans, deliberately missing the point for all of a second. It's not as fun when Sanada doesn't try and get his hat back, so Yukimura settles for wearing it himself instead. "Chemistry used to be fine. I just don't like it now. I'm good at everything else that I need to be good at, and I'm very good at the things I want to be very good at." 

 

“Do you enjoy being told you need a tutor?” Sanada presses. Something has to get through to this clown. “Even if you could get sponsors, no one can be a tennis pro forever. Bad grades in school can haunt you.”

 

"Maybe in _Japan_. It's entirely different overseas, as long as you can play." Yukimura snorts, and throws Sanada his hat back irritably. "I'll be a pro as long as I want. That was the plan, and it still will be." _Eventually_. Yukimura doesn't like thinking about how that got interrupted, or how a dozen contracts were canceled and left in the dust. 

 

Sanada nods, settling his hat onto his head. “In Japan, it’s different. We don’t assume we’ll go pro before it happens...especially when we can’t make it onto a tennis team without someone else’s mercy.”

 

Yukimura's smile thins. "You _do_ love throwing that in my face, don't you? And, you know, doing that _assuming_ thing. Is that a Japanese habit, too?"

 

“It is a Japanese _thing_ to retaliate when constantly attacked. You’ve done nothing but snipe at me since we met.” And yet, he still opens the gate to the tennis court for Yukimura, picking up a racket that, well, it’ll do.

 

"Maybe that's because you've done nothing but make those _faces_ at me." Racket in hand, Yukimura takes a swat at Sanada's ass with it before trotting away. "Can't help it." 

 

Sanada pulls out a ball, scowling at his opponent. “Chlorine and Argon,” he calls, and serves a swift slice directly down the middle, right at Yukimura’s feet.

 

"You were _serious_ about that." Sanada is _so_ much more of a challenge to play against, even if Yukimura has to actually work. He'll keep that mindset for now, before he gets frustrated over being out of breath and shaky half-way through a game, no doubt. "Argon chloride. And you _said_ ," he calls out as he hits the ball back to the left corner, "that if I didn't slack off, you'd do something for me. The implication was _other than tennis_."

 

Sanada dives, and manages to return the ball just over the net, a soft, quiet bounce. “What more do you want? I’m getting you on the _team_. Nitrogen and Sodium.”

 

Yukimura prides himself on not ending up with skinned knees and elbows when he runs up to catch that ball. "Sodium nitride--" Thank god he sounds mad about it, and thank god his ball is still in. "Aren't you any fun at all? Say that you'll entertain me by playing tennis on the weekends with me, or you'll be kind enough to not force me to keep studying in that stuffy library day in and day out."

 

“I’m not here to entertain you!” Sanada thunders, and slams the ball so fast it nearly causes the air to _crack_ with the speed of it. “I gave up two evenings a week to help you, and you want me to give up weekends, too? I’m _busy_.”

 

Yukimura leaps after it, smacking it back straight down the center of the court. " _You're_ the one that seems to dislike that I'm a _slacker_. I thought you'd find my enthusiasm refreshing!" Or maybe Sanada is just permanently grouchy. Seems about right.

 

Sanada has to scramble for the ball--there was no way Yukimura should have been able to hit that back, and his return is sloppy, ending in a lob. “What do you want?” he demands, bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to run. “More damned tennis?”

 

"Don't say it like it's such a horrible thing," Yukimura sighs out, moving backwards quickly and then stretching up to catch the ball on its slow bounce. It's a fast and low return, and it skims the net before toppling over onto Sanada's side. "You used to have another doubles partner, do you call it _damned tennis_ when you play with him?" 

 

Sanada’s dive is something he’d be proud of, if he weren’t so annoyed with Yukimura for hitting that damn ball in the first place. He sends the ball slicing to the back corner, feeling the sweat start to trickle down the back of his neck. “ _He_ listens when I tell him things,” he growls, “and when I tell him to study! Hydrogen and Oxygen!”

 

It's hard not to feel just a little bit giddy when he can dart after that ball and send it back with a sharp backhand, too. _I can do this, I can actually play, I'm not even tired yet, I'll return every single thing he hits to me_ \--that all runs through Yukimura's head and he almost forgets the stupid little game within a game that they're playing, which is hilarious because it's just: " _Water_ \--how badly do you think I need to study, exactly?" he exasperatedly snaps back.

 

“That’s _two_ oxygen,” Sanada snarls, and hits the next ball harder even than he’d intended, hard enough that he feels a strain in his shoulder. God, it’s hard to deny that his blood is pumping, his chest heaving, and he feels more oddly free than he has in months. 

 

It’s _not_ a little grin tugging the side of his mouth. It’s _not_.

 

"Just shut up and play tennis!" It takes two hands to hit that particular ball back, and Yukimura can feel the _ache_ of it up through his elbows, into the back of his neck. He still wants to make Sanada run for it and _miss_ , so there's less power in Yukimura's return, more softness that makes it just shy of another cord ball, with a _thankfully_ low bounce. 

 

It feels a little too good to be dripping in sweat and chasing a ball around with no end in sight. 

 

A rising shot is a little beyond Sanada--except it isn’t, because playing like this makes him want to _try_. Sanada lets out a primal, guttural noise, and the rising shot arcs out, something he hadn’t even been sure he was capable of at this level. Yukimura is fast, and accurate, and playing like this feels _good_. He hasn’t felt like this since the Nationals--and even that hadn’t been this much of a challenge.

 

Yukimura curses--vehemently, most likely a string of _shit shit shit shit_ underneath his breath, and he's not even a half-step too slow to return that particular ball within bounds, though it's _close_ , he can tell. He heaves a long breath, shoves his sweaty bangs out of his face, and wishes for his headband already. "Really good," he breathes, and he turns around to get another ball. "You're better than Keigo, too." 

 

Sanada leans forward, bracing his hands on his knees for a moment as he pants. He straightens up, pulling off his hat to wipe the sweat off his face, and sets it back again with a nod of acknowledgement and thanks. “Atobe Keigo? You’ve played that lunatic?”

 

It's hard not to laugh at that, and Yukimura tosses another ball over to Sanada. "I grew _up_ with him. Honestly, he's not even _that_ good; he just works hard and doesn't ever get tired, the asshole."

 

“I never said he was that good,” Sanada says mildly, grabbing the ball from midair. “I said he was a lunatic. I beat him last year, after prefecturals. An unofficial match.” Admittedly, it had taken a lot of effort, but the end result had been...satisfying.

 

"Ooh, he lied about that. The other day, he said you never responded to his unofficial match requests," Yukimura reveals, grinning, and rakes a hand back through his hair again. "He's weird, though, for sure. Once, we tried playing a doubles match together. Never again."

 

“Oh?” The smile draws out one of his own, and Sanada sets his hat firmly onto his head. “I’m not surprised he didn’t mention it. He tried to call it off at the end, and wouldn’t accept his failure. I admit, I find it hard to imagine you playing doubles. We should probably try that before either of us commit to it, don’t you think?”

 

"No, I need to do it." The words come too fast, maybe a touch too desperate, and Yukimura tries to settle back down into relief that _he's going to be on the team and he can play tennis and it'll be fine_ all over again. "I'm awful at doubles," he admits, walking up to the net and leaning against it slightly. "But I don't have a choice if I want to play here. Japan has next to _nothing_ in tournament circles, and I'm stuck here for now, so I have to do something. At least _you're_ good at it. Though you're good at singles, too," he adds suspiciously. 

 

Sanada’s eyes narrow, in a squint rather than a glare. Ah. Maybe he hasn’t been told. “I know,” he says mildly. “I was ranked number one in Japan last year. Maybe it will be a good challenge for me to play doubles with someone who doesn’t know what he’s doing.” He hesitates, but Yukimura is really a different creature when he’s playing tennis. “Are you free this afternoon?”

 

Yukimura's eyebrows slowly raise as he leans into the net until it creaks. He'd make a joke about east-meets-west in a showdown for the top, but the humor would be lost and he's not even _close_ to being at the top anymore, anyway. " _Now_ you want to spend time with me? I hardly feel worthy, Number One-san." 

 

Sanada’s eyes roll. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have asked.”

 

"I'm not turning you _down_." Yukimura heaves a sigh and rocks his weight backwards again. "I'm always free. There's a tennis court right down from my house, for what it's worth. Also, my mom will definitely feed you afterwards."

 

“I was _offering_ ,” Sanada grinds out, the headache returning, “to take you to the court where some of my old teammates practice. That’s where my partner usually practices. Him and his partner would help us with doubles.” If Akaya isn’t too dismayed that he’s playing with someone else, that is.

 

It's probably a bad sign that the thought of playing doubles publicly makes Yukimura want to grimace. "If you want." Sure. That's amenable sounding, isn't it? He straightens entirely with another sigh. "Before that, hit another rally with me, because you're getting all angry-faced again and I didn't even do anything but _breathe_." 

 

“When you call me Number One-san,” Sanada mutters, “there’s something insulting in your tone. It’s annoying.” Rather than call out a set of elements, he just serves, invading like fire.

 

"Said to anyone else, and it would be," Yukimura calls back, throwing himself after that ball from the start and hitting it up into a high-arced lob. "But you at least can back up that title!" Because really, who would have thought the top of _Japan_ would actually be that good?

 

“If I couldn’t,” Sanada says curtly, “I wouldn’t have mentioned it.” He jumps, rising into the air to slam the ball down to the court with as much force as he can muster--this rally, he’s certain, will be much shorter.

 

 _Asshole_ , Yukimura half-heartedly thinks, and the twinge of trying to return _that_ shot ricochets up his arms. The _problem_ is catching up to it more than anything, and it shows in the way he doesn't quite catch it with the sweet spot of his racket. "Ah, I'm fucked," he mutters underneath his (already) much shorter breath, and true to his words, the ball is out again. Yukimura tries not to think of creative ways to kill himself. "Hey, if you outlasted Keigo, then you've probably got more tricks in the stamina trade than he could ever hope for. Aren't I lucky." 

 

“You keep doing this thing with your voice,” Sanada says, grabbing the ball and tossing it in his bag before hefting it over his shoulder. “It makes me want to punch you. Is that foreign, or just you?”

 

"I forget Japan doesn't have sarcasm." Yukimura grabs his own bag, blinking sweat irritably from his eyes as he trots over to catch up. "I was mostly serious, though. It doesn't matter what I do, it still feels like my muscles are still an atrophied mess and I'm lucky if I can get through half a match. I'd kill for even half your stamina, or Keigo's." His expression shifts wry. "This is what you signed up for, Number One-san. Congratulations." 

 

The frown turns confused, and Sanada grabs Yukimura’s bag without thinking, throwing it over his shoulder as well. “Why are your muscles atrophied? You should practice every day if you want to be part of Rikkai’s team. We don’t play around.”

 

Yukimura gives him an exasperated look, but doesn't protest beyond that. "I _do_ practice every day. I'd practice all day if I could. I had to take some time off last year, that's all. I'm coming back from it still, and it's just harder than I thought it would be to get back to where I was before."

 

Sanada hesitates, then nods. “I was faster last year, too. Akaya might be annoyed with me. Or worse, he’ll beat us.” The thought makes him growl, and he mutters, “Let’s not let that happen.”

 

"All I've done is lose lately. If it happens again, I'm going to have even worse of a complex." It's a bad joke, really.

 

“You need to learn humility. Losing is good for you. I think.” He doesn’t _really_ know, but it sounds right.

 

Yukimura's smile falters. "If you say so. My ego clearly needs more punches to the face, so have at it." 

 

“That...isn’t what I meant.” Sanada tugs his hat down farther, and mutters, “I lost a footrace when I was in grade school. Humiliating.”

 

Yukimura just has to _look_ at him for a moment before he reaches over and gives Sanada a sympathetic(?) pat on the arm. "I'm sorry, but I still think the shame of losing a doubles match with Keigo in front of the roaring crowds of Wimbledon tops that." 

 

Sanada shudders, entirely from the thought and not from the touch to his arm. That’s...interesting. Yukimura’s hands--he’d thought they’d be cool to the touch, somehow, but they’re warm, intriguing. “All the more reason to never lose again, for either of us.”

 

For the moment, Yukimura takes pity, and doesn't comment on goosebumps. He does, however, take his sweet time pulling his hand away, because the curve of the muscles in Sanada's arm are a rather nice thing to touch. "If I'm ever the reason we lose an official match," he simply says, "you can throw me off Tokyo Tower or something." 

 

Sanada hesitates, then nods. “Deal. Likewise. I suppose we’ll have to win.” Win. Together. As if it’s something they’re doing as _partners_. That sends a small chill down his spine (or a thrill, hard to tell), and he nods firmly. “The park is this way.”

 

Honestly, Yukimura can do without all of this. 

 

Sanada's partner--Akaya? yes, that's it-- _is_ there, though not with his partner, and that's the problem. He's cute, and young, and a lot more hot-blooded and temperamental than Yukimura would have expected Sanada to have in a doubles partner. The desire for interaction on his end dies off after awhile of listening to Akaya ramble on about Rikkai Middle's tennis team, how his current partner is a total flake, and how _hard_ it is to be captain without Sanada around. 

 

Sanada seems nothing shy of thrilled. 

 

Yukimura snags his racket from his bag and escapes to play with a wall instead, which works out when he keeps getting texts, then calls, then texts again from Shiraishi that he exasperatedly ignores. The wall doesn't really stare back at him in terror like an opponent should, but his opponents don't do that lately, either. Yukimura wonders when he's become such a recluse, and why holding the attention of anyone other than his childhood friend for more than five minutes has become impossible.

 

Catching up with Akaya takes somewhat longer than Sanada had anticipated, especially when the kid looks up at him with those wide, earnest eyes (sometimes a little bloodshot, but Sanada’s working on beating that out of him). It feels _comforting_ to talk to Akaya, to talk to someone who _respects_ him, and he forgets for longer than he’d intended that he’d come for a purpose. “Ah, Akaya, I’ve decided to play tennis this year after all,” he says, a little hesitantly. “I’ll need to keep in practice waiting for you, and this transfer student needed a partner.”

 

Kirihara makes a face and shifts to rest his racket on one shoulder. "So much for _that_ promise, huh?" He can't be _too_ angry about it, though, because the prospect of Sanada not being out of practice at all when he finally gets to high school is too exciting. "Is he at least really good? As good as me? No one's as good as me." 

 

“That’s why we’re here. He’s shit at doubles.” No need to tell Akaya that in singles, Yukimura would probably wipe the floor with him; he’s the worst kind of player for Akaya to face. “Know anyone around that you could team up with to practice against us?” If he knows Akaya, he’ll take any opportunity to test his mettle, especially against someone he now has good reason to dislike. Good; Sanada wants to see how Yukimura does against different kinds of players.

 

"If he's shit, why are you even wasting your _time?_ " Kirihara's scowl deepens. "There's a freshman I can call, I _guess_ ," he grumps, fishing for his phone. "Or maybe I should just play against the both of you by myself. You're out of practice, he sucks, I'd hold my own just fine!" 

 

Just because he’s not at the same school doesn’t mean Akaya is allowed to be like this, and Sanada’s eyes narrow. “If you can beat him in singles,” he says, pulling Yukimura’s bag off his shoulder, “We’ll face you as a doubles team. Yukimura, sound fair?”

 

"Well," Yukimura comments as he catches his ball when it bounces off of the wall and lowers his racket, "if he's better than the wall, that would at least be more enjoyable." 

 

Kirihara's glare isn't very effective, because he kind of pouts when he does it. "Sanada, where did you even _find_ this one? If you're gonna pair up with someone that isn't me, it should have been Yanagi."

 

“Renji wanted to play singles,” Sanada said with a shrug. “I was going to focus on my kendo instead. He harassed me until I gave in, but we won’t play if he can’t learn to play doubles.”

 

"Do you know that it's sort of rude to discuss people that are standing right here?" Yukimura pipes up, and claps a hand onto Sanada's shoulder. "Also, you _like_ playing tennis with me." He's nice, and doesn't call Sanada a liar again. Never seems to go over well. 

 

Sanada opens his mouth, and catches a whiff of Yukimura’s smell, something light and fruity and crisp. Well. All right. “Don’t embarrass me,” he mutters, both to his new partner and his old, and stalks off to the edge of the court, tucking his hat firmly onto his head.

 

Akaya _is_ good, Yukimura will give him that much. 

 

The problem is he isn't _that_ good. Or really, it's more like he's predictable--at least, as a singles player. Yukimura can see why he and Sanada would have made such a good team, because with Sanada actually strategizing and controlling the power behind all of Akaya's shots, he'd be a _real_ force to be reckoned with.

 

As it is, he's just all kinds of easy to see through. 

 

Strong, though--Yukimura's shoulders hurt, and his legs ache because the kid likes making him run around a bit. It doesn't matter, because Yukimura can still return everything, and particularly return everything closer to the net where Akaya clearly doesn't like playing. He gets twitchy and his blood pressure must be skyrocketing, judging by the, um, way his eyes get bloodshot. Or something.

 

"Best two out of three!" Akaya insists, and Yukimura hates on about twenty levels the fact that he's the one out of breath when he still won rather handily. 

 

"Maybe after caffeine and a nap," Yukimura grouses, and tugs his shirt up to wipe his face with it. "Sanada, maybe you should play with him or something." Even though that's the opposite of learning to play doubles, it sounds pretty good.

 

“Akaya, find a freshman,” Sanada orders instead, and jerks his head behind him, at the vending machine. “We’ll be just over there.” Not that he’d enjoyed watching the two of them play, though it’s _always_ interesting to him to watch how Akaya plays with someone else. More important is the way he’s been able to watch Yukimura play, and that’s worth the price of a can of soda. He fishes out a couple hundred-yen coins from his pocket, popping them into the machine to let Yukimura make a selection. “You always return the ball,” he observes, arms folded. “It’s not about hitting aces for you.”

 

"Returning the ball _is_ the game." Mentally, Yukimura complains about Japanese soda and food in general before resigning himself to the most carbonated thing he can remember. He grabs the soda and pops it open. "Back when I was in Europe," he murmurs, eyes lidding, "I was even better at it. It was fun, making people have anxiety attacks on the court. It's the best way to win. I never dropped a game in any official matches--well, save for that doubles match with Keigo. I don't count that." 

 

Sanada’s eyebrows climb. There’s more to this young man than he tells, that’s for damned certain. “Your match with him. When was it?”

 

Yukimura takes a sip of his soda, thinking. "That was when I was just turning 13, so--not even two years ago? Something like that." 

 

Sanada nods. He’ll have to do some research on what happened two years ago to turn an eager, enthusiastic tennis prodigy into an atrophied, sniping mess of a boy. “Do you mind playing Akaya? He reacts well to being humiliated.”

 

Yukimura tries not to spit out his drink. "Well, when you phrase it like _that_ \--you're kind of awful yourself, aren't you?" 

 

Sanada’s smile is thin, and honestly, nonexistent, but it’s in his voice...to someone who knows where to look. “He’s very cocky. Being shown he isn’t number one makes him try harder.”

 

"Mmnn, I'll take that as a compliment, then." Yukimura offers him a too-sweet smile. "I don't mind playing him at all. He makes nice faces when he's being crushed thoroughly. Kind of rude, though, and that's coming from me." 

 

“He’s immature and needs to learn manners,” Sanada allows, “but his heart is genuine. If you’re cruel to him, we’ll never play doubles. Tennis only. Keep that sa-ru-ka-sumu thing to yourself, he won’t understand it.”

 

"I'm not going to be _mean_ to him. I'm just going to beat him in tennis. Also, it's _sarcasm_ , not--oh, never mind," Yukimura sighs, tossing back the rest of his drink in defeat. "Don't worry, I can tell he's practically still a baby. I'm not _that_ much of a jerk." _Also, we are going to play doubles if it kills me._

 

“At least he knows when to shut up and act his age,” Sanada mutters, “and doesn’t think he’s better than everyone. Oh, and if he starts trying to hit the ball at your body, return it or get out of the way. He hits hard.”

 

Yukimura snorts. "I'm not going to run from a ball. I'll return it and he'll learn not to do something so desperate." He tosses his empty soda can away and stretches with a sigh. "Thanks for the drink--let's go play some more, okay?" 

 

Sanada doesn’t sit on the sidelines during the match, but stands on the center line. It doesn’t go _exactly_ as he’d anticipated--Akaya takes more balls than he’d expected, but Akaya usually does that. He’s been surpassing Sanada’s expectations for a while now, and he doesn’t bother quelling the urge to call, “Good!” after he calls the score each time. 

 

Yukimura does well, but he’s weak, and it’s obvious. There’s more strength there than Sanada had seen the day of their first match, but he’s obviously tired, and more than a little of that is from the previous matches.

 

It’s still a victory, one that makes Akaya almost throw his racket to the ground, one that has that stupid tongue ready to come out of his mouth before Sanada throws a tennis ball at his head. “Game and match, Yukimura,” he calls, unaware that he’d been tense. “Seven games to five.”

 

Akaya still spends his time hissing and spitting about his loss, and Yukimura spends his time trying not to pant like a dog. He feels the shake of overexertion down his legs and up through his arms, and nothing makes him more annoyed, or feel like running another 12 kilometers just to make himself pass out and get it over with.

 

He doesn't pass out, though. He makes it to the nearest bench, flops down, and lies there and contemplates jumping off a bridge. 

 

"Just because he won doesn't mean anything," Akaya insists, aggravatingly still full of energy. "You _know_ he can't play doubles, Sanada!"

 

"I can and I will," Yukimura breathes, waving a hand tiredly in dismissal. 

 

“He’ll learn,” Sanada says, “or he’ll lose.” He looks over at Yukimura, tired but elated. “Or he’ll deal with me playing by myself while he stands there being useless. I have a feeling that’s good incentive to build up his stamina.”

 

Yukimura exhales a breathy, noncommittal noise. "Give me five seconds and I'm going to go run all the way home." 

 

"Whatever," Akaya grumpily replies, gingerly inspecting his tennis racket after he'd tossed it onto the ground. "Still not as good at doubles as me. I can't wait until I'm in high school already." 

 

Sanada nods, and claps Akaya on the shoulder, squeezing it. “I can’t, either.” Yukimura is fine, but _stressful_ , and he’s put a lot of time and effort into mentoring Akaya into the young man he is today. “Don’t slack off until then. I don’t want to find out you’ve become lazy.”

 

"I'm not going to slack off! I'm _captain_ , I can't slack off, what would the team think?" 

 

Yukimura tunes out Akaya's earnest, too-energetic reassurance in favor of summoning the strength to roll off of the bench and to his feet. His phone buzzes again, and he pretends not to hear it. _Goddammit, Kura, leave me be already._ "I," he announces, "am going to go home if you are done losing."

 

Akaya shoots him a glare. Yukimura ignores that as well, and flashes Sanada a sweet smile. "Thanks for carrying my bag for me earlier, Number One-san." 

 

“He does this horrible thing with his voice,” Sanada explains, irritated. “It’s a gaijin thing.”

 

"You carried his bag for him?" Akaya asks, brow furrowing up in disbelief. 

 

"He's a real gentleman." Yukimura hefts the thing on his shoulder now, though, and gives Sanada's back a brush with his hand as he walks by. "See you later, _Gen-chan_." That's better than sarcasm, maybe.

 

Sanada glares, uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Never mind that. Tell me how you’re doing in your studies.”

 

"I'm doing fine! Um, well, maybe if you have time, we can meet up sometime and you can help me with English, but that's nothing new, you know…" 

 

Yukimura shakes his head, ignores his phone for the umpteenth time, and makes as hasty of an exit as his tired muscles will allow. The sooner he's away from the father-son brigade, the better.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“I didn’t _lose_ ,” Atobe mutters, face flaming. “I--I mean, I didn’t _win_ , but I tried to call the game off mid-match because of external circumstances, and he kept playing, so really…” He sighs, head drooping. “Yeah, fine, I lost. Are you happ--you can stop laughing any time, Sei-chan,” he mutters, giving the other boy a kick in the thigh. “Talk when _you’ve_ beaten Sanada goddamn Genichirou.”

 

"Hasn't your euphemism beaten him?" Yukimura teases, hiding his snicker briefly into a pillow. Atobe's bed is comfortable, he remembered that much from the other night before collapsing into it at the first opportunity, and right now, sprawled across it on his belly, it makes his sore, over-used muscles feel _much_ better. Maybe this is the key to Atobe's stamina, or maybe he's just a freak. "I'll beat him soon enough. I've already beaten his old doubles partner. Either way, he sort of grows on you, and at least he's _attractive_ when he's kicking my ass." It doesn't mean he has to like it, but at least he can appreciate certain aspects of it. It's the best thing he can hope for lately, honestly.

 

“Oh--oh _god_ , Sei-chan.” The look of horror on Atobe’s face drips into his speech, and he raises up onto his elbows, incredulous. “You’re insane if you think this is a good life choice. Even my glorious self--in all my wisdom and beauty--would fall short of that most lofty goal. You’ve got _no_ chance.”

 

Yukimura blinks, then scowls back at him, kicking in Atobe's general direction. "You'd fall short because you're obnoxious and have a cancerous mole. You should see the goosebumps he gets every time I touch him, Keikei. If I wanted him, I could definitely get him." 

 

Atobe’s hand flies to his mole--yep, still perfect--and his foot shoves into Yukimura’s thigh. “You take that back about my mole. It brings light to humanity!”

 

"It," Yukimura drawls, kicking Atobe back in the shin, "is definitely cancerous. You're going to die because of it some day, just wait. Get it frozen off." 

 

“I would rather die. I would rather _you_ die,” Atobe mutters. Then he changes the subject--Yukimura doesn’t deserve to talk about his mole. “There’s no way you’ll ever manage to sleep with him, you know. You’re hallucinating the goosebumps. He’s just a big stupid kendo sword with a racket.”

 

"A big stupid kendo sword with _amazing_ muscles. Have you seen them? Have you _touched them?_ " Yukimura persists, smirking as he wriggles his toes against Atobe's leg. "I was not imagining the goosebumps. He even carried my bag for me. He's about as repressed and gay as I've ever seen someone, and I would definitely do him." 

 

“Not. A chance. In hell.” Atobe laughs, rolling over to look at the ceiling. “I’ll bet you.”

 

"Then he can put it in me. That's fine, too." Yukimura shoves himself up onto his elbows. "I bet I can definitely get him in bed. What do I win if I do? Well, other than Sanada's virginity-apparent." 

 

Atobe ponders for a moment, then grins. “If you can do it by summer break...how about four weeks in England? We should be there by Wimbledon. We can stay in one of my castles, it’ll be brilliant.”

 

"Done." There's not a chance in hell he'd hesitate with that offer on the table. "It won't even take that long, I'm sure."

 

Atobe’s eyebrows raise. Yukimura sounds so _confident_ \--but then again, he can’t remember the last time he’d tried to sleep with someone and failed. “Don’t you want to hear what I want from you if you fail?”

 

"I won't fail, but sure," Yukimura sighs, dropping his chin into one hand. "I bet I can guess, though. It's always the same thing." 

 

“For a whole _week_ ,” Atobe clarifies gleefully. “The first week of summer vacation.” He pauses, then relents slightly. “But after that, we can still go to England.”

 

Yukimura supposes there's no _real_ way to lose this bet, not if they'll still go to England. "Mmn, sounds good." It's not like he even minds the idea of bottoming to Atobe; it just never works out that way, and, well, Atobe's whiny when he's drunk, so… "It'll be so nice to go to England either way," he sighs, flopping his head back down. " _Anything_ to get out of here during the summer, really; it's too hot, and my old friend from Osaka will definitely never stop harassing me after we had sex all of once."

 

Atobe makes a face. “Why on _earth_ would--oh, are you talking about the pretty blond that you had in my bed? Kunimitsu was _cross_ with you.”

 

"I know, I remember his face when I left the next morning." Yukimura rolls his eyes. "Kura is a good friend, but that's about it. And I can't even _really_ call him that anymore because he knows nothing about me nowadays, so I don't know what to do with him. Too bad he's blowing up my phone-- _look_ at this," he insists, fishing out his cell phone to push it in Atobe's direction with a list of half a dozen missed calls. 

 

Atobe whistles through his teeth, impressed against his will. “That,” he murmurs, reclining back with his hands behind his head, “is a boy who wants you badly. Is he so intolerable? Obviously he cares for you a great deal.”

 

"He's very nice, and he's very pretty," Yukimura bemoans, shoving his face back down into a pillow. "But he's--he _isn't_ gay. Not really. He's so innocent. And he has a pet _beetle_."

 

“Does he?” Atobe asks, intrigued. “I used to have one of those. Fortunately, it perished. No mercy for arthropods.”

 

"He named it and everything. Please save me, how do I make this stop?" 

 

Atobe laughs, patting Yukimura consolingly on the head. “I, too, have encountered similar problems. We are simply too lovable.” But thinking about Oshitari and That Moment makes him shiver a little, and he hadn’t told Yukimura about that, anyway. He flops over, muttering, “Maybe I should just move to Germany and bring you with me.”

 

"Immediately," Yukimura agrees too-quickly. "Then you can have your Tezuka creature and I'll be able to play tennis for real. And I wouldn't have to suffer through _chemistry tutoring_." Atobe's pillow smells good, which is nice when he buries his face into it all the more. "I hate Japan so much. I should have died in Europe, it would have been kinder." 

 

“ _Stop_ that,” Atobe reprimands, and reaches over to swat Yukimura’s shoulder. “Don’t even joke about that. You have no right to deprive the world of a man like the one you’re going to become.” It had been _horrible_ , waiting in those cold hospital rooms, wondering if he’d wake up in bed to the telephone’s ring, telling him his best friend was dead. He’d seen Yukimura’s mother’s face, every time the doctor had come out during the surgery.

 

He _never_ wants to see anyone look like that again.

 

"I'm not joking about it," Yukimura grouses underneath his breath, low enough that it sounds like frustrated mumbling more than anything. That's for the best. "Still feels like I've hit a wall," he admits after another moment, lifting his head a bit from the pillow. "Transfer 5% of your stamina to me. I'll be eternally grateful." He doesn't say that Sanada is the first person to push him in forever, and that it's nice to have someone that seems to _like_ the way he plays tennis even when he isn't at the top of his game. It makes it slightly less awful to still not be at his best nearly two years later. 

 

“What are you even going to do with it, besides playing that awful Sanada creature?” Atobe asks, flopping over on his bed to stare at a very expensive tapestry. “Is that the way you’re planning on getting him in bed, by the way?”

 

"It seems to be working," Yukimura huffs. "You know, between that and breathing on him. Don't question me, it's definitely going to work."

 

“You think _everyone_ has a hard-on for you,” Atobe accuses. “Really, you’re more arrogant than I am, and that’s saying something. Your sensor for that sort of thing is poorly calibrated.”

 

"Tell me a time I was wrong and then you can tell me I'm poorly calibrated. But you know, congratulations and all, for being self-aware that you're ridiculous."

 

“Ridiculous? Nonsense. It’s only ridiculous if you don’t deserve the praises you sing of yourself. Fortunately, every excellent word I speak about myself is true. And I see your boast and raise you the tutor in Spanish class.”

 

"Just because I could never _prove_ that he had a hard-on for me doesn't mean I wasn't right." 

 

“He had _three_ girlfriends and never looked at you twice.”

 

"He was extremely attractive and definitely looked at me three times. The point is," Yukimura says, kicking at Atobe's side, "Sanada is _easy_ in comparison. Just wait, you'll see." 

 

Atobe leans back onto his hands, an amused smile on his face. “I’m waiting.”

 

 

~

 

If the bet was about getting Shiraishi into bed, it would have happened a dozen times over by now.

 

Yukimura doesn't care. Well, that's not _entirely_ true; Shiraishi is a good person, decently fun to be around, and nice to him. He just isn't interested in him like that, not really, and everything is only further complicated by the fact of--"I actually _have_ a boyfriend." Established all of two days ago, at any rate, because Niou asked and _why not_ came to mind. If Shiraishi knew the circumstances, that probably wouldn't go over well, especially after he's obviously made a special trip to Tokyo (for whatever reason, and god help them if it was just because of him). "Also," Yukimura says, _attempting_ to back away and make some semblance of an exit, "I'm late heading home. My tutor is meeting me there today, so I _really_ can't be late."

 

Maybe this will somehow help him avoid more awkward invitations to dinner, or tennis, or just to Osaka in general. 

 

A few kilometers away from Shiraishi’s crushed, confused face, Sanada is on his best behavior and in his best clothes, knocking on the door of a very modern-looking home.

 

The door is thrown wide, and a girl of perhaps eleven blinks up at him. “Are you Sei-nii-chan’s friend? He said his stupid Chemistry tutor was coming over.”

 

“That’s right. Is he in?”

 

“Uh-uh, he’s hanging out with Kura. Moooooom!” she calls over her shoulder. “The tutor’s here!”

 

“Ah! Kaede-chan, you should be ashamed of yourself, treating a guest like that. Sanada-kun, please come in,” the woman says, sweeping forward. She bows, and the motion looks slightly stiff, unpracticed. Her hair is swept up in a fashionable curling mass of tendrils, and her Western-style clothes are pressed and stylish. “Can I serve you something to eat?”

 

“I would humbly accept, Yukimura-san,” Sanada says with a deep bow, leaving his shoes in the genkan. “Is Yukimura-kun prepared to study?”

 

“He’s off with a friend,” she says, unconcerned. “I’m sure Kaede and I can keep you entertained until he comes back.”

 

_Late. Typical._

 

Kaede, still fastened to Sanada's heels, grabs firmly onto his arm and stares up at him. "He said," she very seriously intones, "that you were good at tennis. How good?" It's almost a challenge.

 

Sanada looks down, and gives her a little smile. “Good enough that I enjoy playing him instead of dreading it like most boys must.”

 

She makes a face. "Bad answer. Keikei likes playing him, but he's no good." 

 

Instead of asking what the hell a Keikei is, Sanada merely shrugs. “Maybe we’ll play each other here, when he comes home.”

 

“Oh, I have a better idea!” Yukimura’s mother clasps her hands together. “Why don’t you take your racket and show him how good you are, Kaede-chan?”

 

" _Immediately_ ," Kaede enthusiastically agrees, releasing Sanada's hand in an instant and darting away to the stairs. "I'll be right back, don't run away in terror!"

 

At about that point, the front door slams shut, and a rather sweat-drenched Yukimura grumpily stalks inside. "Ah--damn it, you beat me here," he wheezes, raking his hair back from his face. "Sorry for being late, a friend of mine really needed to talk to me, so--"

 

"Don't steal him!" his sister shrieks from upstairs. "He's _mine_ , Nii-chan!"

 

The edge of one of his eyes twitches a bit. "…Right, so, should we go upstairs? Or you can be my sister's captive instead, I guess."

 

Sanada gives the little girl a deep bow when he passes. “I came to help your brother study,” he explains. “If we have time after, I’d be thrilled to play you.” He nudges Yukimura when he stands, elbowing him hard in the ribs. “Though obviously he doesn’t consider his studies to be very important.”

 

"I didn't _plan_ on being late this time," Yukimura sighs, listing to the side before he starts up the stairs. "Have mercy, I promise I even did all of my homework already." 

 

Kaede hisses like a cat from her bedroom, which Yukimura ignores entirely. "She's good," he mildly tosses over his shoulder to Sanada as he opens the door to his own bedroom. "She was the champion of her 12 and under division for the past 3 years. She also does fairly decently in mixed doubles, how refreshing. My parents are thinking about staging a campaign to force the schools to let her play in the male division because she has no competition here otherwise."

 

“She’s not content with winning the female division?” Sanada nods. “Good. She’ll go far with a spirit like that.” He follows Yukimura into the bedrom, looking around critically. “It’s...large. Fancy.” He would have used the word _ostentatious_ , but speaking ill of a host while a guest would be worse than leaving his shoes on.

 

"My parents bought this house, complain to them; I liked the apartment we had in London," Yukimura says with a sigh, and he shuts the door behind them, for however long _that_ will last. He takes the opportunity to tug his sweat-soaked shirt off, and pushes his hair off the back of his neck as he goes to rummage for another. "You're certain you wouldn't rather play tennis instead? I guarantee that's more entertaining than chemistry." 

 

Sanada swallows. There’s no reason he should turn around. That would mean he’s in some way _bothered_ by the idea of Yukimura having his shirt off, and he doesn’t even want to think about what that would imply. He’s not, of course. “I didn’t come here to entertain you. We’ll go over everything you were supposed to have learned, and if everything is correct we can play tennis.”

 

"You _know_ it's all correct," Yukimura complains, and he turns in the process of buttoning his shirt up. "You know, there's something to be said about trust between doubles partners. I'm getting the impression you don't trust me at all."

 

Yukimura has a nice chest, well-muscled for all his slender form, and Sanada forces his eyes to raise up to the boy’s face. “It has nothing to do with trust. My job as your tutor is to make _sure_. Otherwise if you make a mistake, it reflects on me. You waste more time complaining about it than we’ll spend on doing the work, just pull out your notebook.”

 

"I keep holding out for the thought that one day, you'll just give in immediately, for the joy of the sport." Or at least for the mercy of not hearing him whine, one or the other. Yukimura sighs, rummages through his bag, and tosses his notebook into Sanada's chest. "If I didn't know better, I'd say being my tutor turned you on--but you don't seem entirely like the type that would enjoy an authoritative position."

 

“You’re being disgusting. Anyone who gets that kind of pleasure out of a trusted position of power should be stabbed.” Sanada flips to the last page of the notebook, going over every answer against the memory of his own, checking to make certain they match up.

 

"Like I said: if I didn't know better." Yukimura promptly leans his weight into Sanada's side, propping his chin onto his shoulder. "Well, o trusted tutor? Do I pass for today?" 

 

Torn between pushing Yukimura away and ignoring him, Sanada chooses the latter. “These seem to be correct. I’m more concerned with the fact that you didn’t attend class today.”

 

Ah, here it goes. Yukimura sighs, pushing away with a shrug. "It was a lab day. I made sure all my work was turned in, at least."

 

“Lab days are the most important! That’s not a time you can slack off! Putting practical applications to the theories you learn is the _point_ of Chemistry class.”

 

" _Really_. I was sure the point was more along the lines of making me want to throw myself off a cliff." Right. Sarcasm goes over everyone's head in this damned country, and it just makes things more _difficult_ with Sanada, and so Yukimura grinds his teeth a bit as he flops down onto the edge of his bed. "I skipped because the chemicals make me sick." That's about 75% true.

 

Sanada avoids the other boy’s eyes, looking down at the notebook. “Because of the hospital?”

 

Yukimura decides to just stare at him, unsure whether to portray unimpressed, annoyed, or maybe just a bit amused. "That interested in the deep, dark mysteries of my past, Sanada? You could have just asked instead of snooping around. That _had_ to take effort, so I guess I'm flattered."

 

“I couldn’t understand why someone as talented as you would stop playing.” Sanada’s cheeks redden slightly. “It was rude of me. I apologize.” He stands, bowing deeply.

 

"You could have asked," Yukimura tiredly repeats, leaning back onto his hands. "Enough already, I'm not mad. Did you find out everything you wanted to know, or should I clarify why I think I deserve a tiny pass on not liking lab days?" 

 

Sanada hesitates, and sits down again. “It said the surgery was a miracle success. Why don’t you just speak to the teacher? You’re going to fail Chemistry if you keep skipping class, and you’re smart enough that you could have a perfect score.”

 

"Surgeries don't get rid of scent memories." Yukimura shrugs, his expression wry. "I already get enough leniency from all the teachers because of my 'past medical issues', or so I'm told on a weekly basis. With something like this, they'd just tell me to suck it up, I guarantee it. If I fail, maybe I'll have an excuse to beg my way back into going pro."

 

“You should never tolerate failure as an option.” Sanada closes the notebook, scowling at its perfect answers. “I became your doubles partner under the condition that you would _try_. Skipping class doesn’t count as trying.”

 

"The only classes I skip are labs and I do all of my work regardless. That counts as a lot of trying." Yukimura frowns back at him. "Do you think I _like_ failing at anything? You've apparently done a lot of reading on me, so you should be able to answer that easily." 

 

“Not a lot,” Sanada protests, already embarrassed by the show of _care_ he’d demonstrated. “Just a Google search. It was good practice for my English reading.”

 

"Uh huh. Except the _reasons_ about why I was in the hospital were rather selectively released, so you were taking the time to find out about that surgery and everything. You're lucky I don't feel violated."

 

Sanada stares down at the book, too embarrassed to come up with a proper response. “I don’t know why you were in the hospital. I just found a news release saying you’d played your first tournament after a complicated surgery. I...was ashamed for looking, after that.” He rests his head on his hands, adding quietly, “I was afraid it was drugs. That’s why I looked.”

 

Yukimura's stare is entirely deadpan. "Well, technically, I have a hefty stash of narcotics in the cabinet above my sink."

 

Sanada flinches. “That sounds terrible. Is it for the pain? Are you...forgive me, that was out of line. It’s not my place.”

 

Yukimura decides to throw him something of a bone. "I've supposedly made a full recovery, so nothing really _hurts_. Some days, I can just still feel the effects from the surgery and--it turned into a neurological thing, by the way. A tumor, right here," he says, reaching around to give his own lower back a prod. "When you were checking out my back earlier, you probably saw the scar." 

 

Sanada’s face flushes beet red, and he looks down at the table, cheeks burning. “I didn’t notice anything of the kind, idiot! Get your racket, I want to beat you, if you’re feeling well enough.”

 

"You're not allowed to start saying shit like that." Yukimura hops up all the same, grabbing his tennis bag. "If you play me any differently just because you _know_ …mmm, and for the record, blushing isn't a good way to lie about looking at other guys."

 

“I’m embarrassed for you,” Sanada growls, “because you’re acting so shameless.” He grabs his own bag from where he’d set it by the door, taking out his own, _proper_ racket. “Where’s the nearest court?”

 

 _If you think this is shameless, god help you_. "There's a public one just down the road from here." Upon opening the door, Kaede stares up at him, and Yukimura shuts it in her face again. "Let's escape through the window."

 

"Mooooom! Sei-nii-chan is being mean!" 

 

"Do you have siblings?" Yukimura dryly asks Sanada. "If so, I'm sorry."

 

“Sei-chan,” his mother calls, rapping on the door, “no closing the door when you have friends over, you know the rule!”

 

“No younger siblings,” Sanada says, privately uneasy with what would have had to have _happened_ for such a rule to be necessary.

 

"Ah, small blessings," Yukimura grumps, yanking the door open again. "Mooom, it's not like I'm gonna have a seizure again or something!" 

 

Kaede darts into the room at the speed of light, and latches herself to Sanada's leg. "We're gonna play tennis together!"

 

“Tell you what,” Sanada says placatingly, “why don’t you be the ball girl for your brother and me, and when we’re finished, you can play against the winner?”

 

Kaede scowls over at her brother immediately. "Lose." 

 

"I'll make a note of your opinion," Yukimura sighs, throwing a can of balls to her. "Sanada, are you sure you don't want her? She eats little and only needs a laptop to remain entertained." 

 

“She would be very welcome in my house,” Sanada offers with a straight face. “Kaede-chan, you wouldn’t mind getting up at four in the morning to meditate, right? Bedtime is strictly at eight pm, and you only need to sit in seiza the entire time you’re at home and not practicing martial arts. You can come move in today, if you want.”

 

"…Gross," Kaede immediately settles upon, releasing Sanada as if she's been burned. "I mean, _super_ manly, but that's why _you_ need to do all that, and not me."

 

"Four in the morning," Yukimura repeats to himself, grimacing. 

 

"Nii-chan used to get up at four in the morning, but that was to garden."

 

"It's the best time to water everything!" 

 

“I think gardening is a very noble pursuit,” Sanada says gravely. “Yukimura-kun, I’d be honored to see your garden later, if you wouldn’t mind.”

 

"I don't have one anymore." Admitting that annoys him more than it should. Yukimura shrugs, starting down the stairs. "Also, the -kun thing is weird, just call me Seiichi if you've decided to finally be familiar." 

 

Kaede grabs hold of Sanada's hand firmly. "Nii-chan just runs a lot now instead of gardening. Or sometimes, he sulks in his room--"

 

"Kaede, I swear to god."

 

"And draws naked men--"

 

"Why is that a bad thing, exactly."

 

"Or Mom makes him wear things for her. He looks good in a dress." 

 

Yukimura stares back at her, exasperated. "Do you see why I didn't want to bring her?"

 

Sanada holds up a hand, confused on one point in particular. “Wait. Why does your mother want you to wear dresses?” The rest of it is disconcerting, but that’s the part that throws him.

 

Of _course_ that would be what Sanada fixates on. "She's a fashion designer," Yukimura tiredly answers. 

 

Sanada’s brow furrows. “No, you’re not done. Keep explaining, it doesn’t make sense yet.”

 

"Nii-chan has the perfect body for women's clothing," Kaede snidely says.

 

Yukimura grabs her by a pigtail and pulls. Clearly used to this, Kaede doesn't as much as blink. "Sometimes, her regular models aren't around," he explains on a sigh. "So she makes me try on her new stuff. My back made me…ah, what is it in yen, like over two million? Something like that. It was published accidentally, but worked out nicely."

 

Sanada looks away, trying not to picture it. He does not succeed very well. “I wouldn’t have thought your body would work. Since it’s...well. You’re not girly or anything.” How had he gotten into this situation? Why is this happening?

 

Yukimura claps a hand onto his shoulder, offering him a brilliant smile. "You've just earned yourself a free soda."

 

"Sanada-kun is definitely not girly," Kaede pipes up again. "Nii-chan's sketchbooks make that very clea--"

 

" _Kaede,_ it's just figure drawing, _christ_." At this rate, Sanada is going to be too freaked out by his family to ever hop in bed with him.

 

Sanada’s eyes narrow. He turns to Yukimura, stepping neatly away from his hand. “Do you _draw_ me?”

 

Yukimura opens his mouth, shuts it again, and then attempts levelly: "Well, you sort of have a perfect body for anatomy study. You should volunteer as a model for the art classes." 

 

“Pass.” Aware that that makes it sound as if he’s uncomfortable with his own body, Sanada adds, “It’s at the same time as Calculus. If you wanted to draw, you should have just asked.”

 

"…Can we call it even, considering _your_ own gross invasion of _my_ privacy?" Yukimura dryly asks before adding hopefully: "Though I'll ask now, because I guarantee I'll be more accurate if I can actually see you naked." 

 

"Gross, Nii-chan."

 

"You're gross, Kaede, for not appreciating him. _Look_ at him."

 

“Modeling is fine,” Sanada barks, pulling his hat low over his face. “Talking about it is not!” He grabs a ball from the bag, stalking over to the opposite end of the approaching court.

 

Yukimura calls that a success. 

 

 _What if I actually get him naked in my bed tonight and Keigo has to hear about it tomorrow._ The thought is distracting enough to make Sanada's first serve slice right past him, and, well, Yukimura tries to focus a little bit more after that.

 

It occurs to him, briefly, that he doesn't sit and daydream about drawing his actual boyfriend, but that's a technicality he's just going to have to deal with later, when he is done having his ass handed to him in tennis. Which happens, handily, and Yukimura collapses onto a bench afterwards with a long sigh. "Off day," he says, though Kaede is thrilled, and Sanada can just assume that he lost for the sake of letting his little sister play, if he wants. "Enjoy being defeated by her instead." _Jesus, Sanada, leave your hat off more often._

 

"I'm better than Nii-chan now, anyway," Kaede hums, trotting over to the court. "And he never used to give me the yips even when he was really good, so that means I was better all along!"

 

 _What on earth is a yip?_ Sanada wonders, but doesn’t ask aloud. It sounds weird. He nods, saying gravely, “I won’t go easy on you,” even though he plans to.

 

He doesn’t have to _nearly_ as much as he’d feared. Kaede is a good match, a serve-and-volley player that gives him more of a challenge than he’d expected. It’s a refreshing change from Yukimura and Akaya, and Sanada makes sure that the game he plays is a teaching one, neither letting her win nor hitting her easy balls. Each ball he hits goes directly to one of her weak spots, unleashing what he privately thinks is far too many curse words for such a pretty little girl. “You should work on that language,” he calls sternly.

 

"At least she isn't using 'ore' today," Yukimura dryly puts in, folding his arms. 

 

"I'll use it if I want to!" Kaede hisses, stomping one foot angrily before hitting her next serve. 

 

"You'll never get a boyfriend like that, Kaede." 

 

"Japanese boys are dumb!"

 

Well, Yukimura can't argue with that one.

 

“You both speak _terrible_ Japanese,” Sanada growls. “No wonder Japanese boys don’t want you.” Too late, he realizes what he’d said, and channels that frustration into his next return.

 

Kaede lets the ball fly by her in exchange for wide eyes and a very deep pout. "Sanada-kun, you're so _mean_." 

 

Yukimura examines his nails. "They seem decently fine with me. If you want me to speak in a more refined manner, Sanada, you should have said so."

 

"I bet he can't spell my name!" Kaede suddenly crows. "I bet he spells yours wrong, too, Nii-chan!"

 

"He does," Yukimura admits. "Every time." 

 

That startles Sanada so badly he misses the next return. “I do? You should have told me, I hate getting calligraphy wrong!”

 

"You've been writing my name in calligraphy? That's charming." Yukimura leans forward a bit, ignoring how Kaede bounces on her heels, excited about getting a shot past Sanada no matter the reason. "It's the 'ichi', by the way. Not for 'one', but for 'city.' My parents are weird."

 

"My name has two kanji instead of just one," Kaede gleefully proclaims. "Together, they mean crimson blade!"

 

"She's very excited about the murderous connotation," Yukimura deadpans.

 

Sanada shakes his head slowly, pulling off his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Your family is _strange_. The kanji in my name mean precisely what they’re supposed to mean, none of this weird modern nonsense.”

 

"To be fair, you have such a traditional name that it would be upsetting to find that the meanings weren't traditional, too. _Genichirou_ \--ah, it would have been cool if we had the same ichi, though…"

 

"Too long. Gen-chan," Kaede immediately decides.

 

“My grandfather would never allow that,” Sanada mutters. “You two must have to correct your teachers all the time. That sounds troublesome.”

 

"I've given up," Yukimura offers.

 

"I like making sure everyone knows my samurai name in its truest form."

 

"Sanada, finish her already."

 

One more point does the trick, and Sanada bows deeply to Kaede over the net. “Thank you for the game, Kaede-kun. I will make sure the precision and power of the crimson blade are well known among your enemies.”

 

Kaede scowls a little, but the address is proper and suits her purposes, so she bows back with enthusiasm. "I look forward to playing you again and defeating you soundly!"

 

"Isn't she charming," Yukimura sighs, climbing to his feet with a slow stretch. "So, are you going to let me draw you this evening after dinner? Or do I have to make an appointment to have you naked?" 

 

“You’re a little too eager,” Sanada grumbles. “It’s putting me off. After dinner is fine, though.”

 

"If it was putting you off, you'd just tell me 'no'," Yukimura sweetly reminds him.

 

"Nii-chan is gross, you should just draw Kura instead."

 

"Don't wanna. Come on, my mother likes feeding my friends. And you don't have to sit in seiza at all, how exciting."

 

“But sitting in seiza helps me digest,” Sanada protests, tagging along after the excitable Yukimuras. 

 

He digests just fine anyway, more than usual, given how much Yukimura’s mother loads up the plates. They _finally_ manage to escape Kaede after that, retreating up to Yukimura’s room. “I thought you weren’t supposed to have the door closed when you had friends over,” Sanada notes dryly.

 

"My mom's just afraid I'm going to drop dead and she won't hear about it until later," Yukimura sighs, flopping down into his desk chair. "The fact she hasn't yelled at me about it again proves that she thinks you're trustworthy enough to let her know I'm dead on the floor. Aren't you happy?" 

 

“Delighted.” Sanada _does_ appreciate the closed door, especially when he considers what he’d promised to do. “Can I see your sketchbook? I want to make sure I’m contributing to art.”

 

"Do you really think so poorly of me? Ah, wait," Yukimura corrects himself, rolling his eyes as he hands his newest sketchbook over. "You _did_ think I was on drugs, I forgot."

 

“And you said yourself you have narcotics. I just want to make sure…” Sanada’s eyes track down the pages, his face heating up. That’s...a _lot_ of drawings of himself. And those are some _interesting_ poses. “I’m not doing all of this,” he warns. “You get one pose.”

 

"They don't even let me have the really strong painkillers anymore, give me a break," Yukimura sniffs, snatching his sketchbook back. "Just take your clothes off and lie on the bed for all I care. _You're_ the one making this weird, it's not like I draw us making out or anything."

 

“This was a bad idea,” Sanada mutters, grabbing his Chemistry books and stuffing them in his bag. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.”

 

God _damn it_. "Are you _seriously_ going to pitch a fit about this? It's just art, and it's not like it's my fault that you're built perfectly." Admittedly, he does sound like some of the French artists that he knew back home, and they were a bit weird. Yukimura considers gauging his own eyes out. "That's _not_ meant to sound creepy." 

 

“If you didn’t constantly make comments about whether or not I had a _boyfriend_ ,” Sanada says, shifting uncomfortably, “and claim I was _checking you out_ , it wouldn’t be _creepy_!”

 

"They're jokes, I'm not--look, _I_ have a boyfriend, so what the hell do you have to worry about?" If he didn't have a bet on whether or not he could get Sanada into bed within a certain timeframe, Yukimura is certain the response would have served him well. Regardless of Japanese homophobia or whatever, at least maybe Sanada would have found some semblance of _honor_ in the excuse (which is more a lie than anything, because it doesn't matter if he has a boyfriend or not, but maybe, just maybe it would have convinced Sanada to _stay_ a bit longer). 

 

Yukimura's shoulders slump, and he wonders what exactly he's trying to accomplish anymore, anyway. "Forget about it. For what it's worth, though, there's nothing _sexual_ about any of it. I've drawn Keigo's--I mean, I've drawn _Tezuka Kunimitsu_ before, for Christ's sake."

 

Sanada hesitates on his way to the door. There’s something so _honest_ about this Yukimura, something that just unapologetically enjoys things, and that’s why he’d agreed to this in the first place, agreed to play tennis with him in the first place. 

 

He sets the bag down, rubbing at his temples with a sigh. “I’m not _afraid_ of you or anything,” he mutters. “I just have a really hard time telling when you’re serious and when you’re joking. It _always_ feels like you’re making fun of me.”

 

"Well, I'm not." Yukimura flops back down at his desk again, tiredly spinning his chair sideways. " _You_ just take everything too seriously. For every time that I almost make you crack a smile, you're glaring or looking like you want to kill me ten times over. I know my jokes aren't funny, but can you even blame me for wanting to make you loosen up? At least when I hit on you a bit, you seemed a little more into playing tennis with me." 

 

“That has nothing to do with it.” Sanada folds his arms, uncomfortable with the talking, uncomfortable with the whole situation. “I just wanted to make you stop. There are a lot of better ways to make me smile than to mock me and all the things I enjoy.”

 

"I don't remember mocking _all_ the things you enjoy." Yukimura lets his head fall back, and he's fairly certain he resigns himself to losing already, even with several weeks remaining. Ah, well. Atobe's good in bed, and Europe awaits either way. "I'm not sure you're allowed to talk, though, because you seem to think I'm a total pervert just because I like drawing you. That counts as mocking, I think."

 

“You said you wanted to draw me on my back, on the bed,” Sanada deadpans. “Every time I try to think the best of you, you turn around and make it difficult. That’s very infuriating.”

 

"I said you could pose like that for all I _care_ \--ugh, forget it, let's just never speak of this again," Yukimura mutters, and the sketchbook hits the nearest wastebasket. Maybe he'll feel like drawing Niou at some point, who knows. "The rest of it is just my personality, which I have been informed on several occasions since coming to Japan is awful, so I guess that's what you have to work with. Sorry."

 

Sanada gives him a stiff nod. “It’s fine. I’ll...go, then. You don’t seem to want to do any more Chemistry.”

 

No debates about how he's a shining, sparkling sweetheart deep inside, huh? That's probably for the best. "Yeah. See you at practice tomorrow, then." Atobe better have a metric fuckton of lube.

 

~~

 

“What the hell did you do,” Niou asks, a grin on his face, “to piss the Emperor off so badly?”

 

The sun is out, which sucks, but the roof is a hell of a lot nicer than a Chemistry classroom, and Yukimura seems equally happy to be here during class. Niou rolls over, spooning up behind the other boy and burying his face in dark waves, inhaling deeply. “He was soooo mad at practice,” he murmurs, one arm snaking around Yukimura’s waist. “I thought heat lines were going to come off of him.”

 

Yukimura tries not to be annoyed.

 

He reminds himself that this is a boyfriend thing, that he likes doing this with _Atobe_ well enough when Atobe isn't even his boyfriend, and he signed up for this willingly with Niou and he _likes_ Niou. Yukimura likes him a lot, actually, and that's when he realizes he's not so much annoyed about the cuddling in a flowerbed part as he is the mention of Sanada part. "Can we _not_ talk about him?" he mutters, letting his head loll back to better frown at the other boy. "I don't know exactly why he's so angry with me now, but I have a stupid bet regarding him and I'd just rather not think about it."

 

“A bet?”

 

Now, _that_ sounds like fun. Niou raises up onto his elbows, crawling on top of Yukimura. The boy is fucking gorgeous, and Niou still can’t quite believe no one else had bothered to snap him up. Oh, well, more for him. “I like bets. I can help.” He also likes making Sanada’s life hard, which sounds like a pleasant bonus.

 

Yukimura's eyes narrow, and he flops solidly onto his back, grabbing Niou's dangling tie in one hand. "Unless you've a way of convincing him to sleep with me, then no, you can't." Who knows, though. Maybe Niou does have a way, which would be helpful. He's already surrendered at this point mentally, which never bodes well. Atobe's inquisitive text messages regarding the whole thing don't help, either.

 

Niou barks out a laugh. “Are you kidding? He’s the biggest virgin I’ve ever heard of, oh fuck, this is hilarious.” He lets himself be tugged down, teeth bared in a grin. “Whatever your plan is, god, you _know_ it’s not going to work. No offense, you’re sexy as hell, but he’s basically a brick wall.”

 

"You're being an ass," Yukimura warns, giving his tie an actual yank. It was loose to begin with, which makes it not choke Niou this time, at least. "I swear it _was_ working until my little sister made sure to let him know that I was secretly using him for anatomy study. That freaked him out, and then I was stupid and told him I was dating someone and…ugh, I hate all of you, why is sex such a big _deal_ in Japan?"

 

“ _Gay_ sex is a big deal in Japan,” Niou corrects him, leaning gleefully into the yank on his tie with more enthusiasm than he should probably have. “You have to deal with all of his gay panic if you’re gonna go through that wall. Shit, what do you get if you win this bet?”

 

"Four weeks in England," Yukimura wistfully says, twisting Niou's tie around in his fingers. "Wimbledon. Only good things. God, I don't care about his gay panic, he already checks me out at every opportunity, he should realize it by now. _You'd_ have a lot more fun in England, too," he crossly adds. "How do you stand it?"

 

“I’m underground a lot,” Niou says, unconcerned. “Maybe what you need is a bit more incentive, my friend. God knows I’d love to see the stick up Sanada’s ass replaced with something else. I’ll give you my singles spot if you pull it off.”

 

Yukimura just glosses over the underground comment and settles on flipping Niou onto his back instead. He mentally apologizes to all the plants they're squishing, but they'll live if they aren't _too_ ridiculous about rolling around. Either way, this is important. "You're serious." His grip is tighter on Niou's tie. "You're kind of a lying bastard, so how do I know you're going to actually hand it over?" 

 

Niou grins, his thighs parting eagerly for the long lean weight of Yukimura above him. “Why wouldn’t I? I’d be a hell of a lot more entertained by watching you conquer Mount Sanada than I am by tennis. I prefer doubles anyway, and the captain would definitely keep me on there. But...you have to earn it.”

 

"By fucking him senseless?" Yukimura archly prods as he leans down to bite the lobe of Niou's ear, and draws out the bite in a long suck. Sanada is less an annoying topic now, more of a business proposition, and that's much, _much_ easier to deal with. "Or is there something specific you had in mind?" 

 

Niou shivers, stretching out with his eyes closed, though it doesn’t completely block out the obnoxious brightness of the sun’s rays. “You can start by fucking _me_ senseless,” he murmurs, butting his head up against Yukimura’s mouth. “But yeah, that’s all I want. Make him fucking live a little. He’s a good guy, just...well. You’ve met him.”

 

"He doesn't like hearing that very much." If 'repressed Japanese guy' had a poster child, it would be Sanada, Yukimura is pretty sure. It makes him mad thinking about it all over again, and he channels that with another bite, this time to the side of Niou's neck. "Deal," he breathes, drawing away with a wet suck. "Now tell me you brought lube." If he's going to cut class, at least he's doing something like _this_. 

 

Niou scoffs at that, pulling out a loop of cord around his neck, dangling a little vial the size of his thumb. “That way it doesn’t make my ass bulge out at the pocket,” he announces proudly. “Got more in my locker, I can fill it up in the bathroom.” He hands it over, turning over and wriggling his tight uniform slacks down. “You already hard from thinking about him?”

 

Yukimura settles for scowling at him at that, and snatches the vial away. It reminds him of a spy movie, except instead of poison, it's…well. 'Well' sort of describes Niou on about twenty levels, really. "I'd actually rather have him grind _my_ face into the dirt," he grumbles, yanking open his own slacks. "So let's not talk about him while _we_ fuck."

 

Even if Sanada and Niou are two very different people to think about, that doesn't mean he still isn't hard and aching and god, Niou looks _good_ facedown. His fingers are slick when they drag over Niou's hole, and he wraps a hand up into Niou's hair, yanking him back when he wriggles that first finger inside. "You're sure you can be quiet when we do this?"

 

“Nope,” Niou says, cheerful and breathless, squirming back against Yukimura’s hand. “Ahh--fuck, it’s kind of rude how good you are at that.” Yukimura knows how to _handle_ him, for lack of a better phrase, and it makes Niou’s dick harder than he’d thought possible, this fast. “You’re so damn impatient, you just can’t wait to get it in me, huh?”

 

"I'm gonna gag you with a sock if you don't shut up." He might do it anyway, because it sounds appealing and Niou is too good at pushing his buttons. First, though, Yukimura twists his hand, sliding a second finger in deep, with his own breath rushing out fast and ragged at how _tight_ Niou is around just that much. "If you aren't quiet," he warns, "we won't be able to finish, and I _don't_ like being interrupted." 

 

“Yeah,” Niou breathes, eyes fluttering as Yukimura shoves his fingers inside him. His knees spread, and he braces himself down against the ground, achingly hard already. “You just need to get off, right? Just fuck me hard and fast until you get off, that’s what I want, fuck.”

 

It’s probably not a healthy kink, but there’s something about it that makes Niou’s toes curl, so he doesn’t give a fuck.

 

Yukimura is getting the impression that Niou rarely gets what he wants. Maybe this can be considered his good deed for the year, with that in mind. 

 

Niou is still too-tight, nowhere near ready, but they don't have the time to spend dragging this along. He mouths a wet kiss to the back of Niou's neck, pulls his hand free to slick up his cock instead, and just the first rub of his cock against Niou's hole is enough to make his eyes roll back. "Here," he pants out, gritting his teeth with that first, aching push inside, everything slick and hot and _tense_. "If you want it so badly--ah, fuck, you're _tight_ , Niou--"

 

“Yeah,” Niou mumbles, mindless and aching for it, _arching_ his back to hump back onto that perfect cock spreading him open. It always burns, that first slide, and Niou’s hands fist in the dirt as he ruts back, determined to have it all, in that vague part of him that’s still thinking about things instead of just _wanting_. 

 

“Yeah, fuck, just--yeah, like that, just--fuck, gag me or something—”

 

"Warned you to keep your voice down," Yukimura hisses, straightening briefly and blowing a strand of sweaty hair out of his face as he unwinds his own tie hurriedly. He balls it up before he yanks Niou back by the hair and shoves it against his mouth as his hips roll forward, sliding in long and _deep_. It steals the breath from his lungs, and his hands scrabble for Niou's hips next, yanking him back when he grinds forward, his knees sliding up closer for better leverage. "What good are you, really," he groans, bowing forward to suck and bite on the curve of Niou's shoulder, "except to get off in?" 

 

Ah, _shit_.

 

Niou’s hips twitch forward _hard_ at that, and he groans around the tie, biting down onto it hard. It’s not perfect, but it’s _close_ , and Seiichi is pretty and delicate just like he loves his tops. He lets out a groan, shoving himself back, content to be grabbed and _used_ , head nodding emphatic encouragement. If he could talk, he _would_ , but it’s almost better that he can’t, better that all he is has been reduced to how well he takes dick and moans about it.

 

The best part about having sex with Niou is that he doesn't have to worry about much. Just a couple of rules: lots of lube, at least a little bit of fingering, and they're good to go. Niou isn't whiny or delicate about it, and god, Yukimura can appreciate that. He likes a chance to grab up someone by the hair, grinding their nose down into Rikkai University's rooftop gardens while he fucks them hard, while they can barely keep their voice down as they gag on his own tie. 

 

It's also _perfect_ when he's a ball of energy, annoyed about everything except the idea of sex with Niou, and Niou likes it when he's shoved around, so it all works out. 

 

Yukimura digs one hand into the ground, the other scratching up Niou's back, yanking at his hair again at one point to better make his back arch and pull him back onto his cock when Niou tenses up and makes it harder to get all of it in. That doesn't last, and Yukimura likes the way Niou shudders in surrender when he's stuffed _full_ , trembling all around him and making muffled begging, whimpering noises the whole while. 

 

Finally, Yukimura is _in_ , and that’s enough to make Niou sag down to the ground in relief. He’s not sure why it feels so perfect and so necessary to have _all_ of it, but it does. Once he has it, buried deep inside him, all he can do is whimper and drool around the gag, face shoved down into the dirt. 

 

It probably shouldn’t feel like it _belongs_ there, but whatever, it makes his dick hard, so why the fuck not? 

 

Niou has barely the consciousness to shove back, hands fisting in the dirt helplessly as he tries to rock back, back, back, needing more, wanting it _hard_.

 

"Whore," Yukimura rasps into his ear, his own vision blurring at the edges, his own breath too fast and ragged, but god, that makes it better, doesn't it?

 

Niou is a lot easier to fuck now, a lot more pliant, and Yukimura isn't nice about it, not when it feels good just to shove him down and do what he wants. Niou asked for it that way, after all, and holding him down by the hair, shoving in hard and deep each time makes his eyes cross. He pants out hot, uneven breaths against Niou's back, biting down into the material of his shirt to muffle his own voice, and it isn't long after _really_ being able to fuck him, every inch buried inside again and again, that he comes with a broken, breathy sound, his nails scratching at Niou's sides, his cock in as deep as it can possibly be, with Niou left slick and messy inside.

 

Niou had _wanted_ Yukimura to finish first, so he could enjoy the feeling of being stuffed full, slippery and _aching_ for a while, being teased and fingered and mocked, but that’ll have to wait for another time. He just doesn’t have the _stamina_ yet, not when they’ve only been fucking for a week, and he loses himself with a ragged groan, spilling onto unidentified plants below. _I hope that counts as fertilizer,_ he thinks vaguely, sparks popping behind his eyes as his body goes limp. 

 

“So _this_ is what you do instead of going to Chemistry,” says a voice, low and tight and bordering the edge of angry and disappointed.

 

Yukimura just sort of gives up.

 

He's sweaty and sated and post-orgasmic and god, dammit, he just wanted to _languish_ here for awhile with his boyfriend that he's actually kind of fond of. Instead, it's Sanada's voice ringing in his ears, and he's sure the glare he shoots the other boy is the sharpest thing he's ever sent Sanada's way. "This is a first," he breathlessly snipes, "but on lab days, I certainly try to still be creative. Do you mind?" Yep, he definitely has given up.

 

Sanada tears two pieces of paper off of a pad he carries with him. “Citations, for the disciplinary committee,” he intones. “Niou, you’re familiar—”

 

“Intimately,” Niou says, though behind the gag it comes out more like “Imfimimmy.”

 

“Great. What you do now is none of my concern.” Sanada spins on his heels and stalks away, letting the papers flutter to the ground in his wake.

 

"He really fucking loves being able to toss that around, doesn't he," Yukimura mutters, and he slowly rolls to the side, flopping onto his back and dragging Niou with him. Well, there go all of his chances of winning that bet. "How much trouble are we in?" He'll be lucky if he has a doubles partner at the end of the day.  "Also, how do you feel about playing doubles with me? Please spit out my tie already."

 

Niou lets the tie fall, wiping some of the dirt off his face with the cuff of his shirt. “Eh, it’s not so bad for you. First citation’s just a warning and the principal yells at you. I’ll probably have to do some community service or something, gross.”

 

He burrows into Yukimura’s hold, stretching out and thoroughly enjoying the slick mess Yukimura has left him. “He’ll still play with you. He’s not that kind of guy, Seiichi.”

 

"That's the thing: he won't quit, and he'll be _judging me_ the whole time." Yukimura isn't sure when he started giving a damn, but now he's just _annoyed_ by the concept of everything surrounding Sanada. He slings an arm tiredly over Niou, frustrated that even his post-coital bliss had to be interrupted. "I'm so tired of everything. Do you want to fuck again?"

 

Niou grins, and rolls over onto his back. “Got some aggression to take out? I don’t have any more lube here, so you’ll have to fuck the mess you left behind.”

 

Ah. Well. "Sounds good." Yukimura tugs out his cellphone, checking the time as he rolls after Niou and on top of him. "I don't skip art class, so we've got fifteen minutes. Twenty, if you want to volunteer to be a model and I make up an excuse about finding you first. And, you know. Cleaning you up." _That_ teacher at least loves him, as much as any Japanese teacher can.

 

“Sure, whatever.” Niou laughs, and stretches out underneath the secure weight of Yukimura. “I don’t mind if everyone sees the bruises you leave on me if you don’t. Hell, add some more first.”

 

Yukimura hums, and promptly bites down into the curve of Niou's shoulder. He sucks long and hard before he pulls away, leaving a hickey that he's _certain_ will last. "Mmm. I'll make sure I personally add all of them in my sketches." 

 

And so briefly, he decides maybe the bet is stupid, and he should just let it go, and let Sanada think he's an idiot and a pervert and a flake, because maybe that's what he _is_ nowadays. 

 

Or maybe, he can never just let things lie, because it _irks him_ that someone like _Sanada_ thinks so poorly of him. 

 

Practice is nothing short of agonizing, because Niou skips, and Sanada is _always_ there, and it's a dozen times stranger this time and Yukimura itches to just _leave_. He prides himself on holding out, and Sanada, at least, is usually one of the last to leave, which makes it easy to catch him _alone_ after the rest of practice is over. "So," he attempts, sparing a last glance around to make sure that weird Yanagi kid isn't lurking around the clubhouse, or worse, Marui, because he's just a little nosy, "I'm getting the impression that you want me dead." That's better than saying _I think we should talk_ because the Japanese _never_ want to talk.

 

Sanada stops in his tracks, then turns slowly around to face Yukimura. He tries, with little to no success, to forget about what he’d seen on the rooftop, about Yukimura’s hand in Niou’s hair, Yukimura’s pants still on, but undone, the urgent, rutting noises they’d been making—

 

He faces Yukimura anyway, jaw set. “I want you to _behave_ ,” he growls. “You…” He rubs at his face, annoyed. “You’ve been abroad for too long. You forget that in Japan, what you do affects other people. What you do...it reflects on me. But you don’t care, because no one matters but you.”

 

Yukimura grinds his teeth, a dozen things about how _you've brought it on yourself, it only reflects on you because you've let it turn into that, you could've just turned a blind eye, and_ stop _telling me to behave like I'm a dog_ all on his tongue--

 

But he bites it back, because Sanada _is_ right about one thing: he's been abroad for far too long, and god, he hates Japan and everything about it.

 

He sucks in a slow, calming breath, and pulls the door shut behind him. "I'm not _trying_ to get you in trouble, or make you look bad. I didn't _want_ you to walk up and see Niou and I; none of that was planned, actually," he adds crossly. 

 

Sanada folds his arms. “I agree to tutor you in Chemistry, and you skip class. I agree to be your doubles partner, and I find you…” 

 

He can’t really even say it. “I didn’t think you were so awful as to plan it. I just don’t think you were careful enough to prevent it, because you don’t care what I think of you.”

 

"If I didn't care what you thought of me, do you think I'd be here right now?" There's no hiding the frustration in that snap of a reply. "You still don't get it at all. Not careful enough to prevent it my ass--why in the _world_ would I give a damn about someone walking in me _enjoying_ myself? In that sense, sure, you're right, I don't care about anyone else's _opinion_ , because I'd rather at least have one opportunity to have fun rather than somehow lose the chance entirely. But _that_ _doesn't mean,_ " Yukimura grinds out emphatically, stepping forward, "that I don't care about _anything_. Why can't you separate the two?"

 

“Because you never _show_ that you care about anything! Anything but tennis,” Sanada amends, almost spitting out the last word. “You wanted to know why I didn’t want to play this year? Because the rest of the team is like that. It’s all they care about, not about other sports, not about grades, not about other _people_. If that’s all you love, then fine, go play tennis until you fall down, but don’t act like I’m _victimizing_ you for not approving of your attitude.”

 

"The last time you saw a _hint_ of other things that I cared about, you practically ran screaming from my bedroom, so don't give me that shit." Yukimura clenches his jaw, forcing his lower lip not to tremble as he adds: "And I'm _allowed_ to care a hell of a lot about tennis, because I never thought I'd play it again. I would've thought you would be glad to see me actually _interested_ in something, considering all you could do before was bitch about my apathy. What would you have me do, in your perfect world?"

 

About to scream, Sanada stops himself, exhaling a deep breath through his nose. He has to do it a few more times to get himself fully under control, then nods slowly. “Forgive me. It’s not up to me to tell you how to live your life. I hope it is a very fulfilling life.” Then he spins on his heel and stalks off. 

 

He’d wanted to say that he wanted to see Yukimura care about a person, but he does, doesn’t he? There’s a man in his life, even if it is _Niou_. So that’s that, and there’s no reason for Sanada to care.

 

No reason at all.

 

"Don't--" Yukimura immediately lurches after him, grabbing Sanada by the back of his shirt, and slams him firmly into the lockers, "-- _do that_ ," he finishes grinding out, glaring up at him. "There's _always_ something else you want to say to me, but you never say it. How am I supposed to _ever_ figure anything out about you when you won't tell me the whole of anything?" It must be a Japanese thing. Whatever it is, it makes him _angry_. 

 

“You’re a lot stronger than you look,” Sanada mutters, startled by the sudden movement, the sudden _violence_ of it. Ah, he’s unprepared for Yukimura to be so very, very close to him, and his breath hitches at the proximity, trying to keep the other boy from noticing as he glares down. “Why would you want to figure anything about me out?”

 

"Because _apparently_ , there are things that make you smile other than stupid attempts at jokes." Yukimura's fingers curl into fists against the lockers, and he's not quite certain how he's managed to get so close, but it's not a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all, when he notices the hitch in Sanada's own breath. "Is it _so_ hard to believe that I give a damn about anything?" he mutters before lurching up, grabbing Sanada's collar and meeting him half-way with a firm, insistent kiss. 

 

Ah.

 

This is probably more unexpected than it should be.

 

After all the comments and the jokes and the teasing, flirting remarks, Sanada feels like an extreme idiot for not having seen this coming. Still, there’s nothing like hindsight to make him feel like a fool. 

 

Yukimura tastes like something forbidden and secret, like something that’s always been just out of his reach. Sanada lets out a noise he can’t name, and for half a second, the hands that come up to Yukimura’s head grab him closer.

 

Then they push him away, holding him at arm’s length. “If you ever do that again—” He breaks off, not really wanting to threaten him, furious at the situation. “Let me go, Yukimura.”

 

"Why?" Yukimura is so, _so_ sure that he's right, that Sanada was pulling him closer, that Sanada kissed him _back_. He shoves against the hands holding him, grabbing for Sanada's collar again as he licks his lips, staring intently up at him. "You liked it, you wanted me to keep kissing you--why do you want me to stop?" 

 

Sanada’s hands are large and strong, shoving him away, sliding out from between Yukimura and the lockers. He wipes his mouth, though he can’t quite get rid of the look in his eyes--something wild, hungry, and suddenly so _lonely_ that it hurts. “If you can’t figure that out,” he finally says, voice hoarse, “then I really don’t want to.” 

 

He leaves faster this time, running as if he’s training for something, feet pounding the ground almost as fast as his heart against his ribs.

 

Yukimura punches a locker at that point, and his hand hurts well into the evening.

 

"What sort of leniency do I receive if I surrender early?" he deadpans into his cellphone once he's home and locked up in his bedroom, staring down at a new sketchbook that is already mostly full of wanna-be Sanadas. "Especially if I say the great Atobe Keigo was right, that Sanada is impossible, and that I should plummet into the ocean and die." 

 

The voice at the other end of the line laughs, but it’s not a cruel sound. “Five days of being my plaything instead of a week,” Atobe offers generously, “and you can serve them in England. Did he hit you or something?”

 

Yukimura makes a face and collapses back into a pillow. Doing all of that in England doesn't sound so bad. "That would have been better. I kissed him, he kissed back, and then he had some weird Japanese guilt moment and after telling me to stop, got all passive about the reasons why. Basically, I hate everything."

 

“Poor Sei-chan. I could have a party tonight, if you need one.”

 

"He already thinks I'm a whore, no need to live up to the image," Yukimura mutters, flopping an arm over the side of the bed. "If you want to have a real party, invite my boyfriend. He likes being tossed around." 

 

“That sounds like a _lot_ of fun. He won’t spook like the last pretty boy you did in my bed, will he?” Atobe asks, adjusting his sunglasses.

 

"Niou is an entirely different breed, I assure you. Ugh, just…I'll send him a text, at least you all can have fun tonight." He mostly feels like sulking. And painting. And maybe sulking while he's painting. Terribly constructive, all of that.

 


	4. Chapter 4

No matter how upset Sanada is with him, Yukimura never expects this. 

 

 _Sanada isn't that kind of guy_ Niou repeatedly tells him, and Yukimura's believed it, up until now. Until now, when he isn't answering his cell phone five minutes before the registration for the Kantou tournament is about to close, and _he isn't there_. 

 

"I'm sorry, Yukimura-kun," the captain says, shrugging as he crosses out their names on the registration form. He fills in another doubles team, and Yukimura is left to seethe. 

 

It's too close to that little run-in after practice to be coincidence. Of _course_ Sanada would do this on purpose, maybe just to prove a point, to--god, Yukimura doesn't even know, but he's so angry he can barely sit though the tournament (even though the rest of the team wins, and soundly). 

 

"If I remember correctly," another upperclassmen idly recalls, "he _did_ say he might have a kendo match on the same day." 

 

Well, isn't that fantastic, knowing Sanada's priorities. 

 

Sanada doesn't even have the decency to return his phone calls for the rest of the evening, and Yukimura gives up shortly after that. There's an easy enough way to get even, and he makes a point of sleeping in late the following Monday, doing a solid job of sleeping through music class and every accompaniment that Sanada needs. 

 

It stings, knowing exactly how much Sanada must dislike him now.

 

Sanada hurts _everywhere_.

 

Fortunately, the anger he feels at that entitled little _snot_ keeps him alive and awake, banishing the pain. He considers going by Yukimura’s house after school, but even the thought of seeing him makes him want to punch a hole in a brick wall, so he refrains. 

 

The next morning, he’s cooled down slightly, and he isn’t limping nearly so much. He leaves early for practice, waiting by the route Yukimura must take to school. Predictably, the little shit is running late, and when he finally rounds the corner, Sanada’s temper snaps. 

 

Their positions from the other day are reversed, Sanada slamming Yukimura’s back into the brick wall of a nearby building, his face contorted in anger. “You think this is _funny_?” he snarls, eyes glittering dark. “You want to _play_ with me? Tell me _now_ that you care!”

 

Anyone else Sanada has done this to has probably wilted and immediately begun babbling apologies. Yukimura, however, isn't very good at backing down, _especially_ when he's very sure he's in the right.

 

"Tell me the same thing, then!" he snaps back, lurching off the wall to shove a hand into Sanada's chest. " _Everyone_ has done nothing but tell me how _reliable_ you are, and yet you skipped out on the Kantou like it was nothing! Was your kendo match that much more important than the only official doubles match we'll ever get to play for Rikkai together at this rate?!"

 

“... _Kendo match?_ ” Sanada asks, incredulous. “You--you think I’d miss out on a game for a _kendo match?_ Who told you that?”

 

That...changes things. Sanada doesn’t let go, his hand still iron-hard on Yukimura’s shoulder.

 

Yukimura's fingers fist into Sanada's shirt. "Only half the club members, and the captain seemed fine with it, too, as if they _expected_ you to do it. Did you really think I wouldn't find out?" It's anger that's making his voice shake, he tells himself. 

 

With an attitude like that, Yukimura almost doesn’t _deserve_ an explanation, but…

 

Sanada grits his teeth. “I was taking my grandfather up North to his old home when the storm hit. The power went out in the earthquake, and they didn’t have many people to help evacuate everyone. I...I did _try_ to get back in time for the match, but I couldn’t leave before everyone was safe.”

 

Oh, for the love of fuck. 

 

Yukimura's teeth grind, and he releases Sanada's shirt as his arm limply drops. He can't even be _mad_ about that. Sanada is a boy scout no matter how he looks at it, and it makes him want to rip his hair out because it makes him look like the awful one ten times over. "Sorry for skipping our class, then," he mutters, no matter how it makes him want to bang his head into the wall. "I didn't know." 

 

Sanada’s hand tightens on Yukimura’s shoulder, and he grabs his chin with the other hand, forcing him to look up. “I know you don’t know me very well,” he says quietly, “and that’s my fault. Understand that there is little more important to me than being a man of my word. I...I wouldn’t _do_ that.”

 

There's a definite urge to smack Sanada's hand away, or maybe bite him, or--whatever. Yukimura sucks in a slow, calming breath instead, staring back at him. "After the other day, it wouldn't have surprised me if you just quit the team and never spoke to me again." 

 

Sanada releases his face as if he’d been burned. He swallows, looking away, though his other hand stays tight. “I apologize for giving you that impression. I had thought I’d behaved in a method befitting an honorable man. Obviously you don’t see me that way.” Ah, and it shouldn’t hurt, but it does.

 

"…You're not done," Yukimura mimics in a deadpan, sagging back into the wall a little. "Keep explaining. I was climbing you like a tree, what's honorable about shoving me away like you did? Unless you're straight, which in that case, just say so and I'll seriously back off."

 

“I’m not.” The words come out soft, but firm. “What’s honorable about kissing someone when you have a boyfriend?” His face feels hot, but he holds firm, not looking away from Yukimura’s face.

 

"Ah." Okay. That makes more sense. Yukimura exhales slowly, easing the last bit of irritation and _tension_ from his muscles. "Niou and I aren't like that. Exclusive, I mean."

 

“I am.” Sanada frowns. “Or I would be. I--I mean I don’t hold with that kind of thing.” Finally, he lets his hand drop. He takes a step back, and bows. “I apologize for missing our match, and I apologize that I have behaved in such a way that you would think the worst of me.”

 

Yukimura just sighs, and sets a hand on Sanada's head, kind of feeling now like he kicked a puppy. This is new. "I'm not mad anymore." He pauses, and asks wryly, "So, if I wasn't dating Niou, hypothetically how many more kisses would I get?" 

 

Sanada looks up through his hair, under the brim of his hat. “How many classes would you attend, hypothetically?”

 

"…All of them?" Yukimura archly replies, lifting his hand with a smile. "Hypothetically." 

 

Sanada straightens, pulling his hat down lower over his head. “You shouldn’t talk like that,” he mutters. “Niou’s my…” _Friend?_ Not quite. “Teammate.”

 

Yukimura sighs, bends to grab up his bag, and turns to continue on their way to school. "It's not like he wouldn't expect it. I like Niou a lot, but like I said, we aren't exclusive, and he's not exactly my first choice, nor am I his. He was over at Keigo's the other night, even, doing god knows what."

 

The softness of Sanada’s expression fades, and he shoulders his bag again, turning to walk towards the school--not leaving Yukimura behind, walking at a slow enough pace for him to keep up. “That’s a terrible way to treat someone. It’s a terrible way to treat yourself, too.”

 

"…How is terrible if we're both okay with it?" Yukimura presses, his eyebrows raising as he lengthens his stride to keep pace with Sanada. "We're not upset by it, or hurting anyone because of it."

 

Sanada shakes his head, tugging his bag up higher onto his shoulder. “It should be about more than that.”

 

"Well, that'd be _nice_ , in theory." Yukimura shrugs. "I've never had a relationship like that. Niou's the first guy that wanted me to call him my boyfriend, even." Never mind about Shiraishi. "I still don't think he really counts."

 

Sanada shrugs. “I don’t think you should use your body so freely. I don’t think anyone should. I…” He sighs, for once aware of how old-fashioned he sounds. “I know I sound like an old man. I just think that if you want to, to be with someone so closely, to be near enough to breathe the same air, to feel someone’s pulse and be the reason they smile…” He shrugs helplessly. “To me, it would mean more than just...pleasure.”

 

"…For someone that's normally such a stick in the mud, you're _awfully_ romantic," Yukimura lowly teases, sidestepping a little to bump his shoulder into Sanada's. "For what it's worth, if we were dating, I wouldn't be with anyone else. It's not like I don't get the concept, I've just never had a use for it." If Atobe were here, he'd slap him. That might be for the best. God, even _Atobe_ isn't monogamous, and he knits Tezuka _scarves_. 

 

“We aren’t dating,” Sanada mutters, but he doesn’t lean away from Yukimura. If anything, his steps swerve slightly, bringing them a bit closer together. “Why wouldn’t you have any use for it, if you were...if we were...if we were?”

 

Yukimura blinks up at him, as if it's obvious. "You wouldn't date me if I was with other people," he says, and he lets his head flop down, leaning it onto Sanada's shoulder as they walk. "So I wouldn't be with other people. Obviously. Ah, the way we're talking makes it sound like I sleep with everything that moves, and I _don't_. I can count on one hand the number of people I've ever even been with." 

 

“So...you’d do it, because it was important to me.” Sanada frowns, shortening his stride to make it easier for Yukimura to match pace. “I’d want it to be important to you, too.”

 

"Whose to say it wouldn't be? You're nitpicking this an awful lot, for hypotheticals."

 

“This is why I don’t talk to you about things. You always find a way to make me feel embarrassed or uncomfortable.”

 

"The only reason you're embarrassed is because you think I'm making fun of you, and I'm not." Yukimura lifts his head. "Just ask me out already, then it's not so hypothetical and I can't tease you about nitpicking."

 

“I can’t. You’re dating Niou.”

 

"He's sort of a cheerleader for us. He wouldn't be upset…or surprised."

 

“Gross,” Sanada mutters. “I have my principles. I...I wouldn’t have thought you’d have wanted to. You don’t even like me.”

 

"I don't like how _uptight_ you are about things," Yukimura corrects, and he reaches over, grabbing at Sanada's tie as he slows to a stop. His eyes narrow when he leans up, Sanada's hat an obstruction to kissing that he's not really interested in, and he prods it up with one finger before leaning in to steal a quick brush to Sanada's lips. 

 

Sanada allows it for a brief second, then pulls back, breathing deeply to calm himself. He holds Yukimura’s eyes for a moment, _wanting_ , then looks away. “I’ll politely ask that you don’t do that again when you’re with someone else. It means something to me.”

 

"And if Niou and I break up? This afternoon?" Yukimura prods, nevertheless obediently releasing Sanada's tie, lest he _really_ need to pull on it again for the sake of more kisses.

 

Sanada sets off again towards the school, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Just a hint. “Then ask me again. Do not count me as a guarantee. I don’t want to be responsible for his unhappiness, even if you don’t think he will be. That’s his own decision to make.”

 

"Mmm. We'll see, then." _What an explosive romance that was,_ Yukimura thinks with a roll of his eyes. Niou is weird and fun and as much as they _like_ one another, there's little point to any of it aside from the weirdness and fun, and they've known it from the start.

 

Which, that coming to mind, brings up the whole matter of _what is the point of all of this why am I actually considering breaking up with Niou for the sake of this guy with a stick up his ass oh god I still have a bet involving him looming over my head_. 

 

"Regardless," he idly suggests, giving Sanada's shoulder another nudge, "you should invite me over at some point. Isn't Japan all about hospitality? You've seen my house and awful family, yours _has_ to be better. I'll even behave perfectly, I assure you that parents love me."

 

Sanada’s lips thin. “I apologize for the oversight. I was going to invite you after our first doubles match, but, well…” 

 

He clears his throat. “I hope you’re comfortable with seiza. There aren’t chairs.”

 

"I'm used to not feeling my legs, it's fine! And yes, that's a joke, feel free to laugh." 

 

Sanada already had, startled into humor. “I like that you can laugh about it. I don’t laugh about very much.”

 

"The best jokes are about one's own horrible life experiences," Yukimura sighs, giving Sanada's shoulder a pat. "I'm mostly just sad that I can't get into restaurants faster now that I'm not in a wheelchair. But hey, I'll take a laugh out of you, that's pretty hard to achieve."

 

“It’s easy when you’re actually funny. Have you considered that most of your jokes are bad?”

 

"Didn't I admit that the other day? Don't throw it in my face, I'm already disheartened enough by Japan not finding me amusing." 

 

Sanada’s smile fades, and he asks quietly, “England was very different for you, wasn’t it?”

 

Yukimura pauses, then shrugs, and hikes his bag up a bit higher. "That's the biggest understatement of the century. You probably think I'm just whining about it, and should get over it because I'm here now and it is what it is, but…I'm entirely serious when I say I'd rather be there than anywhere else in the world." He sighs, his smile wry. "Keigo's being nice enough to take me along over summer break when he goes. It's going to be hard not to get kidnapped on the streets of London and never return." 

 

Sanada closes his eyes for a moment. It’s still spring, and even if the cherry blossoms have faded, the plum blossoms still linger close, and the day isn’t yet so swelteringly hot. He can hear the Westminster chimes of the school from here, smell the cooking rice and fish from a nearby house, and see the flicker of the ocean in the distance, down the hill. “Is Japan so bad? Is it just unfamiliar?”

 

"I came back here every summer before I got sick, so it's not that. It's just--" Yukimura worries his lower lip as he thinks. "I had _friends_ in England. And places I liked to go, things I actually liked to do, and I'm not talking about just tennis. Though that was entirely different, too, and actually _meant_ something. There's barely even a tournament circle over here, so trying to tell someone you want to go pro is like saying you want to work at a convenience store." 

 

He sighs, his eyes lidding. "I actually liked my school, and the teachers liked me, and even though I'm Japanese, I wasn't _that foreigner_ over there. My parents were going to let me stay at boarding school even though my father's job was sourcing back to Japan, but then I got sick, and so now they don't even trust me on a bloody train to Osaka. So yes, Japan's pretty awful." 

 

Sanada listens quietly, walking in silence for several minutes. Before responding, he tries to think about it as if the positions were reversed, suddenly being thrown into a foreign school without being perfectly fluent, where his past successes and failures meant nothing, where he’d never see his friends, where everything that had been in process would be _forever undone._

 

“That sounds like hell,” he says frankly.

 

"And I'm living it glamorously," Yukimura retorts, falsely cheerful. "Keigo keeps trying to make it tolerable. It doesn't work. The only other friend I have is in Osaka, and we're not exactly speaking right now. You see why I'm a little obsessive about tennis? Not that it matters, because even after all that rehab, I'm still not as good as I used to be." 

 

“You’re _very_ good,” Sanada says, protesting slightly. “I can only imagine how good you must’ve been before your illness. And…” He shrugs. “If you keep training like you have been, you’ll be better by the time I go to play with Akaya. You’re more talented than I am, that’s obvious.”

 

Yukimura falls silent for a moment, and tries very hard not to cry over how good it feels to receive an actual genuine compliment about tennis for what feels like the first time in forever. God, just kill him now, but he _does_ know that everything out of Sanada's mouth is genuine. "I had a nickname," he quietly, almost petulantly says. "It sounds a little ridiculous in Japanese, though." 

 

“I doubt it. Japanese is not a very ridiculous language. We have laws against that kind of thing here.”

 

"It sounds ridiculous," Yukimura repeats, but he heaves a sigh in defeat, anyway. "In Japanese, it's 'Kami no Ko.' At least it's better than Yankee-kun, but it's much better in English." Most everything is.

 

Sanada rolls that around in his mind. “In English,” he asks, trying to formulate the words, “is that ‘child of god’ or ‘godchild?’ I think the meanings are different. Ah, I know, my accent is not so good.”

 

"It's really fine. You're better than Hiyagawa-sensei, don't even get me started on him," Yukimura mutters, a shudder running through him at the thought of their 'English' teacher. "'Child of god', usually. I think it also translates to 'demigod', but then we're just verging on _really_ ridiculous."

 

“I don’t know that word. It sounds very pretentious.”

 

"It means like…half a god, something like that. Don't worry, that one used to make me laugh, too. _The_ _point is_ , my nicknames were much better over in England. Plus, none of you even know what a yankee actually is."

 

“I know you aren’t one. Unless,” Sanada says, a hint of warning in his voice, “you’re hiding a motorcycle somewhere.” He doesn’t approve of motorcycles.

 

Yukimura settles a flat stare upon him. "My parents don't even let me on the train by myself. Do you really think they'd let me have a motorcycle? Ugh, but you're missing the point, never mind." Yankees can just remain a mystery to the Japanese for all he cares.

 

Sanada stops before the school gates. “We have practice after school,” he offers, by way of a peace gesture, not that he seems to need it any longer. “I’ll be there.”

 

Joy of joys, Yukimura supposes that means he has to actually go to chemistry again. "You better," he hums, and promptly reaches up to steal Sanada's hat before trotting off. At least now he has a guarantee. 

 

~

 

Yukimura makes Niou a casual offer of one more fuck before they break up, but it's declined courtesy of, well--that party the night prior. 

 

Sanada doesn't have to _know_ that they're postponing said break-up for a few more days so that last roll-around can actually happen officially. Yukimura doesn't even feel that guilty about telling him, cheerfully, that he's single, and Niou's absence at practice again makes it authentic enough. 

 

What he _doesn't_ expect is for Sanada to immediately invite him to dinner. It was his suggestion, Yukimura supposes, but for it to happen right away…

 

Nope, still doesn't feel guilty. Stupidly excited, maybe, in the weirdest, giddy way that would make Atobe tease him and so he'll just _never_ get to hear about it.

 

 _There's still a bet in place_ , Yukimura tells himself, and then kindly shoves that thought from his mind when he walks home with Sanada and finds himself staring at a home that could double as a set on a historical movie. He should have known. He tries not to find Sanada a dozen times more attractive for it.

 

He fails. Miserably. And doesn't mind.

 

Sanada is nervous, no matter that maybe he shouldn’t be. Yukimura likes him, obviously, and has come over no matter the fact that he _knows_ there’ll be enough tradition to make his vice-principal balk. That probably shouldn’t make Sanada feel so warm, but Yukimura is...well, different.

 

(Yukimura saw fit to seek him out, to keep trying after being pushed away, and Sanada had been so certain that no one ever would. It’s a good thing, he keeps reminding himself.)

 

He opens the door, bowing low. “Welcome,” he says formally. “Please come in, Yukimura-kun.”

 

Ah, weird. Yukimura forcibly resists flicking Sanada in the forehead as he toes off his shoes. "Seiichi is fine, you know," he wryly reminds him, giving him a gentle shove to his shoulder instead. "Especially in front of your family. Or is that not considered polite enough?"

 

“We’re not married,” Sanada says dryly, “so probably not. Follow me, I’ll introduce you to  everyone.”

 

First is his grandfather, who gives Yukimura a slow, measured nod. He’s in a nice mood today, which probably means he’s not on those internet comment sites. Those always leave him cranky.

 

"I'm of marriageable age," Yukimura sweetly whispers into his ear when he's dragged further into the estate. Grandparents are easy, Sanada's pissy little nephew (that is girlier than Kaede, somehow) is a bit more difficult, but it's all easy enough to deal with. "Keep that in mind, _Sanada-kun_ , and you can call me Seiichi whenever you want." He's so helpful, isn't he?

 

It’s a walk through the courtyard to get to the main building, and Sanada flushes dark red. He opens his mouth to say that Yukimura shouldn’t joke around like that, that someone will take him seriously. “You’d be a fashionable bride,” his mouth says instead.

 

He should start keeping score. He'd have at least two fully crossed-out tallies by now. "My mother has made a great number of wedding dresses in her day," Yukimura hums, slowing a half-step to peer around the well-maintained gardens. "She'd be happy to make mine." 

 

“Good thing you’re Japanese,” Sanada remarks, pausing to let Yukimura catch up. The grounds are nice enough that he likes people to look at them. “Otherwise everyone would expect you to have a figure up top as well as the one you have below.”

 

Yukimura pauses. "So you _have_ been looking at my figure. Attempting to guess whether or not your fingers will touch if you grab my waist?"

 

“They won’t. You’re not that small.” Sanada looks down at his own hands surreptitiously. No, they’re not yaoi hands or anything.

 

"A shame, that. You _definitely_ should try anyway, though." 

 

Sanada takes a breath, then lets it out. “I wouldn’t mind. At least I’d know you weren’t going to flounce away.”

 

Yukimura sniffs. "I don't flounce. I certainly wouldn't flounce _here_ of all places."

 

“You make a lot of self-important movements.” Sanada smiles to himself for a moment, and adds quietly, “I wouldn’t mind holding you still.”

 

"A romantic way of saying you want to have your hands on my waist for a really long time," Yukimura lowly teases, nudging up against Sanada's shoulder again. "You have my permission, if you want it--"

 

"Genichirou, did you bring a friend home?"

 

Yukimura is quick to undrape himself from Sanada's shoulder the moment a woman emerges, and he can only assume that it's Sanada's mother, judging by the traditional clothes and that same, straight nose. He wonders if this is going to feel less like an omiyai any time soon. Probably not. "I'm his new doubles partner, Yukimura Seiichi," he politely introduces himself with a bow. "It's very nice to meet you, Sanada-san." That's also weird. Honorifics are in general.

 

"Ahh, it's lovely to finally meet you, Yukimura-kun--you'll be staying for dinner, I hope?"

 

"Of course--"

 

"Good, you're so _thin_ , we're going to fix that."

 

Yukimura gives Sanada a sideways look when his mother disappears back into the house. " _She_ thinks I'm small enough," he mildly quips.

 

“Small enough to feed,” Sanada says. “Besides, I never said I couldn’t lift you up. Just that my hands wouldn’t fit around your waist.” 

 

He darts a look to the side, then the other side, then moves forward a step, letting his hands rest on Yukimura’s waist. “See?” he asks quietly, face serious, eyes dancing. “Still a few inches between my thumbs.”

 

Oh. _That's_ really nice. Yukimura pauses on his next exhale, lips parted, and wonders exactly how much of an issue it would be if he just leaned up right then and there and kissed Sanada. For his own continued benefit, he resists--barely--and instead lets his eyes lid, a smile twitching up the corners of his lips. "It's a perfect span on my lower back, though. Let's call it a success."

 

“I think it’s safe to call this a success,” Sanada murmurs. He lingers for a moment, squeezing his hands slightly, and lets them fall. He could almost feel Yukimura’s pulse under his fingers, and sighs at the loss of that warmth. “Ah, before I forget.” As if he hasn’t been rehearsing this in his head for hours. “My uncle has a small home near the beach, and asked me to be caretaker this next weekend. I understand if you’re busy, of course. I understand you attend a lot of parties, but if you’re free…”

 

Next weekend. Damn, is it really that close to summer vacation? Yukimura hesitates, still very certain he can feel the press of Sanada's fingers against his spine, and curls his toes a little. "I can't," he says, no matter how he hates it, and he sighs. "I want to--but I was actually going to leave to go to England that weekend…which was something I needed to talk to you about, because I won't be here for the Nationals. Not that they would have used me--us--but…"

 

Sanada gives him a brief smile. “It’s fine. If I let the captain, he’ll probably just put me into singles. Even if…” He shrugs. “I wouldn’t mind playing doubles with you at Nationals, now. But I’m glad you’re going back to England. I know you miss it.” He knows, because Yukimura says it almost every day, in a varying state of whining and yelling.

 

At least Sanada isn't angry. That's an odd weight off of his shoulders, and Yukimura sags. "Four weeks of it," he says, both tiredly and cheerfully. "With Keigo and his euphemism, but, you know. Take what I can get and all that. If I'm lucky, I'll come back and I'll be less dreadful, and you'll have won the Nationals. Maybe we can spend time together after that, there will still be a few days of vacation left."

 

“I usually spend all my summers volunteering at my grandfather’s dojo,” Sanada admits. “Those few days sound just fine. I’m sure my uncle will let me use the beach house again, if you...I mean, we don’t have to go, it was just an idea.”

 

"Ahh, I'm missing out. You could have taught me kendo things," Yukimura wistfully says. "Maybe you still can. After we roll around on the beach and all of that, or after you rescue me from drowning a few times." 

 

“Rescue you?” Sanada blinks. “I’m sure you can--don’t they teach swimming in England? I can teach you that as well.”

 

"It's a joke. A bad one," Yukimura says with a laugh, giving Sanada's shoulder a pat. "I just want you to give me CPR, more or less."

 

Sanada’s cheeks burn. Apparently, that’s just going to be his default state whenever Yukimura’s around. “Then…” He adjusts his hat, then shoves his hands down into his pockets. “I hope you have a good time in England. And that…well…” He hesitates, then leans over and brushes a quick kiss against Yukimura’s cheek. “Come back soon,” he mutters, and turns away, heading for the main part of the house.

 

Ah. 

 

Yukimura dissolves a little. 

 

The tally marks are wrong. Sanada has at least a dozen up on him. Dinner is kind of blissful for that reason, and Yukimura is _perfectly_ happy to be sweet and polite and charming to Sanada's parents (who seem to like him, thank _god_ \--though when did he become so concerned about that?). Sitting in seiza for that long is a chore, but he bites his tongue about it, and tries to consider it some kind of endurance training. 

 

Also, it _has_ to win him a few points. He hopes. 

 

After dinner, he briefly considers asking Sanada to go and play tennis with him again, but that doesn't sound quite as enjoyable as tagging at his heels and seeing his bedroom. Yukimura idly grabs a handful of the back of his shirt as Sanada leads the way. "…You know what? You've never told me _anything_ about kendo. If you invited me to your matches, I'd actually go." 

 

Sanada’s breath catches a little, though he refrains from doing anything to touch Yukimura until they’re actually back in his room. “You...you would?” That’s oddly flattering, and something warms in him that he hadn’t even realized he’d been a little upset about.

 

He tugs the other boy into his room, sliding the paper door closed. “I can show you a little now, if you want,” he offers, and takes down a sword from its stand. “I can even teach you some. You seem like you’d be good at it.”

 

"Eh? No way, I'm awful at any sport that doesn't involve hitting a ball," Yukimura waves off with a laugh. A sword looks a little too natural in Sanada's grasp, and Yukimura does his best not to start chewing on his lower lip about it. "You can show me anything you want, though."

 

Sanada’s smile is one of the least forced he’s ever given. “Yeah. Here, it’s better if everything is proper.” He strides to the closet, removing his pressed kendo uniform. Without really thinking about it, he strips off his clothes, easing himself into the careful folds that make up his practice clothing before grabbing his sword again. “I can show you the practice courts. You can borrow some of my outside slippers--or maybe my nephew’s, your feet are pretty small.”

 

Well, there's his art reference. Yukimura tries not to tilt his head nearly horizontal in the brief moments that he gets a full view of Sanada's body. That's a _lot_ more than he gets in the locker room, god bless. "…You really were born in the wrong era, weren't you?" he sighs, and trots after him, beaming. "You're like a real samurai. No wonder you want to focus on kendo more." 

 

Sanada is quiet for a few moments. These aren’t the kinds of things he says to just anyone, but… “Sometimes I think so,” he says softly, breathing in the stillness of the air, blocked off from the bustling metro of Tokyo. “Sometimes I think it would have been easier for me, back then. There are so many things that...Ah, forget it, that was sentimental.”

 

"It's fine, I like it." Yukimura latches himself to Sanada's arm in the next movement--loosely, lest he not like it, but he's pretty sure they both do, and Sanada's shoulder is nice to lean into. "You can make a career out of that, if you're lucky," he gently teases. "You're a good actor, right? Get into historical stuff, you'd be a real star." 

 

“I didn’t know you knew about that.” Sanada is a bit taken aback, but doesn’t pull away. “Do you act as well? We could really use you for the upcoming festivals.” Already his mind tracks ahead to how much _better_ this year’s productions could be, if he actually had a co-star that could memorize lines and even looked pretty in the costumes, unlike last year’s disaster.

 

Yukimura gives him a wry look. "Do you _realize_ how much people talk about you? You've something of a cult following." He sighs, shrugging. "I prefer directing, but as if anyone at Rikkai would give me half a chance, and my humor is awful nowadays…so sure, let's say I act." 

 

Sanada’s eyes gleam avariciously. “I don’t suppose….” He clears his throat, trying not to be _too_ excited. “I’ve always wanted to do Yotsuya Kaidan, but I’ve never had an Oiwa. Ah, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to, but….well, if you did…”

 

He's going to have to do a lot of reading on traditional Japanese plays and literature, isn't he. "Why not? Get me a script and we'll do a thing. Ah, I bet you're so much better than Keigo, he overacts times twenty if you don't yell at him all the time."

 

Sanada’s face turns sour, as if he’s bitten into an unsugared lemon. “That doesn’t surprise me at all. He overacts in everyday life. I’ll find you a script after we’re finished out here, all right?”

 

"He's very European," Yukimura wisely says. "And that sounds good. I guess I should stop clinging to your arm, but, you know." 

 

“Only if you want me to show you some kendo,” Sanada says gruffly, trying not to miss the warmth of Yukimura’s body when he steps away. “I’ll show you a few moves, just to sort of...give you an idea of the general form, and why I love it.”

 

He breathes in deep, squares off, and draws his blade. One slice, and the top of the straw bundle falls neatly to the ground. Or at least, it would, if Sanada weren’t showing off _just a bit_ , spinning to slice the severed part in half before it reaches the tile, holding his final pose, sword extended.

 

Yukimura is generally good at hiding the fact he's stupidly turned on, but hopefully, he can be excused in this case. 

 

Maybe Japan has a _few_ good things about it, though it mostly ends and begins with Sanada Genichirou and the way he _moves_. 

 

He narrowly stops himself from biting a hole through his lip. Breathe, Seiichi. Stare like a normal onlooker, not like a total pervert--ah, that part isn't as hard as one would expect, because he _can_ appreciate the skill and precision in spades. "I can see why you love it. You're _very_ suited to it." 

 

Sanada nods seriously, breathing deep to make sure his form and breath are both correct. “It has always suited me. I like…” He raises his eyebrows, a silent shrug as he takes his starting position again. “I like doing the things I enjoy with precision and...as close to perfection as I can manage.” Hopefully that doesn’t sound too full of himself. He breathes out again, and the sword flashes, slicing off a bare millimeter of the remaining hay.

 

Breathing is a good idea. "You play tennis like that, too. I can even see some of the same form." Yukimura exhales, long and slow, and steps closer, reaching out to close a hand over Sanada's. "Teach me some of it? It can't hurt, maybe I'll improve somehow." 

 

There’s already a sword in Sanada’s hand, and he presses it between Yukimura’s fingers. They’re close to each other, so close that Sanada breathes in the heat of him, though he tries to pass that off as something else--anything else--with remarkably little success. “It’s about economy of movement,” he says, clears his throat, and tries again. “No unnecessary movements. You have to have grace, fluidity, or it’s not worth playing. Here, make your stance like mine.”

 

That definitely sounds like a useful technique to keep in mind, and something Yukimura's struggled with lately. Sanada's voice also just sounds good, and Yukimura makes a valiant attempt to focus on what he's saying rather than the fact that Sanada's just rumbling in his ear pleasantly as his fingers curl around the sword and he settles into a stance that he hopes is correct. "You're ranked number one in the country, aren't you?" he murmurs, glancing sideways at him. "How many other people get the honor of a private lesson from you?" 

 

Sanada thinks about that for a moment. “The people who I would give one to,” he says at last, “don’t appreciate the opportunity.” _Akaya_. 

 

He moves to stand behind Yukimura, arranging his arms, chest pressed to Yukimura’s back. _Down, Genichirou, it’s just a tennis lesson._ Kendo. Whatever. “Move your arms and the sword as one,” he says quietly, easing Yukimura into the movement. “When you strike, don’t think about hitting the straw with your blade. It’s the same with tennis--you have to plan to swing your racket _through_ the ball. Only then do you achieve grace.”

 

Yukimura appreciates the opportunity. _Thoroughly_.

 

He can't even feel disgusted with himself about it, because Sanada warm and solid behind him, and his touch _is_ innocent (mostly), but it feels better than anything else has in months. He suppresses a shiver, lids his eyes, and relaxes, telling himself to focus on Sanada's instructions and not the way his skin flushes hot under his collar. "Okay. I'm going to try it." 

 

Sanada nods, stepping back a few paces, trying not to miss the slight warmth of Yukimura against his chest. “Pull back,” he instructs, “like I showed you at the beginning of a swing. See the spot marked in white on the ground? That’s where your tip should finish, right in your line of vision, but don’t worry about that.”

 

"Got it." He's going to worry about it, because he's going to get this _right_. When is the last time he actually wanted to impress someone? Tennis doesn't count, because he hasn't even impressed _himself_ with that in so long--

 

Ah, but if nothing else, Yukimura figures he can try and follow a few directions. He draws in a long, deep breath, pulls back for his strike, and swings. It's actually kind of satisfying, hearing the cut of the blade even through the air, let alone through straw, and the release of tension after the fact kind of makes him sag. "Ahh, was that any good?" he frets, turning partially to peer back at Sanada. "The best teachers can't do anything if they have a helpless student, so, you know…" 

 

Sanada’s mouth twitches into a pleased, impressed little smile. “That’s much better than I was expecting,” he admits. “It must be that tennis has strengthened the right muscles.” He can’t help but look at those muscles in question, even running the side of one thumb over one shoulder before he stops himself. “You might think you’re very European, but you look good doing Japanese things.”

 

That simple touch shouldn't make his knees so weak. "At least I can't say you're biased," Yukimura teases, a pleasant flush rising to his cheeks at the praise as he turns to pass Sanada his sword back. "Mmn, your muscles are definitely better though. Maybe I should get on your regimen."

 

“I get up at four in the morning every day.”

 

"Oh, I definitely am not doing that."

 

Sanada laughs, and steps up to position Yukimura’s arms once more in the same position. “Your follow-through was excellent,” he murmurs, “but you need to put in more power at the start. Attack from the first second. First, with your mind. Then, with your body. Follow the intention of your thoughts.”

 

Yukimura sticks his tongue out. _Too much Japanese vagueness_ he wants to say, but bites it back, because what the hell, this might actually do something for his mindset when he plays tennis, and obviously he's doing _something_ wrong if he can't get back to where he was before. "Okay," he exhales, and he waits for Sanada to step back before he tries again.

 

It _feels_ cleaner to him. That might count for something, right? Oh, what the hell does he know. "Ah--you laughed a second ago," he belatedly notes, glancing back at Sanada. "I want to start keeping records of that."

 

That makes Sanada balk, and he looks away quickly, though there’s no reason he should feel ashamed. “Don’t say such ridiculous things,” he growls, reaching up for a hat he isn’t wearing, brushing his hair irritably out of his face. “But that was a good swing. If you practice, you’ll be very good at this.”

 

"Don't say such ridiculous things," Yukimura echoes, and he makes a grab for the front of Sanada's hakama with a grin. "Liking being able to make you laugh is a lot better than the idea of _that foreigner_ ever being good at kendo. I'd much rather watch you practice it, anyway."

 

Sanada reaches down to slap his hand away, and winds up gripping it tightly, pulling them closer together. His breath shortens, and he can’t help the way his eyes get dark, larger as he can feel the slight warmth from Yukimura’s body. “I like the idea of a foreigner like you being good at it. I’d like to see the look on their faces when you show up in your sunglasses and shoulder jersey and defeat all of them.” There might be a slight lingering resentment against the kendo board, for one reason or another.

 

"I don't wear sunglasses," Yukimura mutters, his breath leaving him in a rush as his fingers slowly curl. He'd toss Sanada's sword away, but ah, he'd probably get yelled at for that, and so stretching his weight up onto his toes is a good way of pressing closer that doesn't involve _grabbing_ again. Damn it, but Sanada is _warm_ , and he wants to dig his nails into his chest and feel exactly how hard every single one of those muscles are. "I'll do it for you, though," he says all the same, gnawing on his own lower lip for a moment. "Bonus points if my jersey doesn't fall off my shoulders when I beat them, right?"

 

Sanada laughs. “There’s another for your tally count, I guess,” he murmurs, eyes following the progression of Yukimura’s teeth over his lip, locked on the plush slickness of it. His heart thuds against his chest, and he _wants_ to say something, wants to touch and grab and _kiss_ the other boy, but….

 

There’s a hesitation, and Sanada isn’t quite sure where it comes from. More than anything, he’s pretty sure it’s from the certainty that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and his first time would be on the floor of his grandfather’s kendo studio. That doesn’t make him pull away, just hesitate, looking down those important couple of inches.

 

God _damn it_. 

 

Yukimura swallows hard, thinks about that stupid bet, and that alone is enough to steel his resolve. After he gets out of here, he's going to text Atobe and tell him he gives up, because--

 

Because he could win right now, and he doesn't want to _win_ , he just wants Sanada and there's nothing that can stop the shaky hitch of his breath when he tugs his hand free and slings it around Sanada's neck to haul him down. "Before you freak out," he manages to breathe, not even minding how unsteady his voice is, "I just want you to kiss me. A lot. Nothing else, that can wait until after England." _If you want to_. 

 

Sanada’s breath is shaky when he exhales, but relieved. He nods, and his hands drop to Yukimura’s waist, tightening on it in a way that probably shouldn’t feel as right as it does. “Thank you,” he says softly, and hopes he doesn’t sound too lame before he bends down to meet Yukimura’s lips with his own.

 

Not the usual thing he hears before he's kissed, but it's actually pretty good. 

 

Yukimura shivers, and he at least _gently_ drops the sword before both of his hands grab for Sanada's hair. Maybe he's a little too insistent, but a _proper_ kiss with Sanada he hasn't had yet, and that makes him strangle back a groan as he rocks up onto his toes to eagerly kiss back.

 

Sanada’s arm goes tight around Yukimura’s waist, lifting him off the ground with the force of it. His lips are _good_ , sweet and soft and supple, and Sanada can’t help but groan as he kisses Yukimura hard, hoping he’s doing it right, because this feels better than pretty much anything else ever has. He’s achingly hard already, though that usually happens just from smelling Yukimura’s hair.

 

He's just going to climb Sanada like a tree at this rate.

 

He doesn't feel bad about it at all, not when Sanada is grabbing him like that and when Yukimura can feel how hard he is. _Ignore that, you can definitely kiss without grabbing someone's dick_ , he desperately tells himself, though he apparently can't kiss without clinging to Sanada's shoulders and hopping up to try and get his legs around Sanada's waist, grinning against his mouth as he does and sucking on his lower lip with a pleased, breathy sigh. 

 

Sanada tries to tell himself this is just kissing, but he’s not even sure if he believes it himself. Worse, he’s not even sure he _cares_. He groans against Yukimura’s lips, all of his blood pulsing hard in his lower abdomen, and the first contact of his body against Yukimura’s makes him move, pushing the other boy against the smooth wood wall, holding him there with the weight of his body. He’s not really thinking anymore, not really _anything_ anymore, just breathing heavily and grinding slowly against the other boy with every breath.

 

When he's this hard and this turned on just by a few kisses and grabbing hands, Yukimura _knows_ he's been doing something wrong before. Sanada feels far, _far_ too good against him, and he strangles down a whine--or tries to, but there's no helping it when arching his back and squeezing his thighs tight to Sanada's waist makes him _writhe_. 

 

"Ahh…fuck, Sanada--" God, this is going to kill him, but Yukimura pulls back, his head thunking back into the wall as he pants and licks at his own, swollen lips. "Should…probably stop," he whispers, a ragged laugh escaping him. "Or I'm not gonna be able to keep my word." There's little more that he wants right then than to feel how Sanada's cock feels in his hand, or in his mouth, or--everywhere, really, because he feels _good_ when he's achingly hard against Yukimura's hip.

 

Sanada’s hand comes to half-slam against the wall, needing the shock of it to jolt him out of the almost-trance he’s been in. His breath is heavy, all the blood thundering south, and he’s a bit lightheaded as he nods. God, he can only imagine how he looks from seeing Yukimura’s face, kiss-bruised lips slick and swollen, flushed cheeks, mussed hair—

 

Yeah, he has to stop looking at Yukimura. 

 

He strangles a groan, gently setting Yukimura back on his feet. “Yeah,” he grunts, voice hoarse. He turns away, adjusting himself, and takes in a deep breath. “Sorry. I got...carried away. I didn’t expect it to be so…”

 

Yukimura kind of slides half-way down the wall, shuddering as he does. "Mmnn." The floor looks good. He ends up there in the next moment. "You and me both," he sighs, eyes lidding. His pulse is still pounding away in his ears, and he's pretty sure his cock won't stop being hard any time soon. "God, you're strong. I like it when you pick me up." 

 

Sanada’s brows draw together, and he kneels next to Yukimura, reaching out a hand to cup his face. “Are you all right? That--are you still sick? I didn’t make anything worse, did I?” God, how would he explain that?

 

Yukimura bites back a choice _you're cute_ , because that sounds patronizing when Sanada is honestly concerned. He settles for butting his head against Sanada's hand instead. "My legs are just wobbly," he says levelly, "because you're a good kisser, and I'm still really, really turned on."

 

Sanada’s face flushes. He drops his hand slowly, scratching at the back of his neck. “Me, too,” he admits. “I’ve never...kissed anyone like that before.” He snorts, self-deprecating. “You could probably tell.”

 

"Not at all. You seemed pretty confident, honestly." Yukimura pushes himself up a bit, though his head still lolls back into the wall when Sanada's hand pulls away. "Seriously, do you not believe me when I say I can count on one hand how many people I've been with? That includes how many people I've kissed, too."

 

Sanada blinks. “I didn’t mean to imply anything about that. I just--you were so good at it.”

 

"Mmm, no worries. Compliment accepted," Yukimura cheerfully retorts, his eyes flashing. "You're _really_ just fine yourself, but I've been told I'm a good teacher."

 

Sanada’s mouth curves into a tiny smile. “Well...when you come back from England...I’m very good at practicing for several hours a day.”

 

"Tennis and kendo and kissing, then, when I get back." Yukimura grins, slinging his arms around Sanada's shoulders to yank him close once more. "I can be a slavedriver if I'm really into something, as you might have noticed."

 

Sanada ducks his head, then looks up at Yukimura through his lashes. “I’m honored,” he says quietly, “that I’m something you’d be willing to practice with.” He _has_ to remember why he didn’t like this boy for so long, because it’s getting to the point that being within a meter of him is enough to turn Sanada into some sort of pathetic creature.

 

Ah. Shit. Yukimura has to shove Sanada's face down into his neck. Is this that whole Japanese moe thing that Atobe rambles on about sometimes? If it is, it's kind of painful and makes his face way too hot. "Just make sure you answer texts when I'm in England," he murmurs. "Otherwise, I'll be lonely over there, too. At least, after Keigo's boyfriend shows up." 

 

“Atobe Keigo has a boyfriend?” Sanada asks, slightly alarmed at the thought. “Who would be willing to put up with that on a permanent basis?”

 

Whoops. Should've kept the term 'euphemism.' Yukimura winces and sets his chin atop Sanada's head. "You're not supposed to know," he says on a sigh. "But I know you won't talk about it to anyone. It's--ah, you know him, this is weird. Tezuka Kunimitsu."

 

Sanada’s face turns to a scowl. “ _Tezuka_ ,” he spits, eyes focused on something quite far away. “Of course they’d be willing to tolerate each other, they’re both insufferable.”

 

Yukimura pats his shoulder sympathetically. "Keigo is a good person, though. He's just…mm, _Keigo_. Once, when I was in he hospital, he sent me so many flowers that I thought I was going to die by pollen instead of respiratory distress."

 

“Terribly useful, I’m sure,” Sanada grouses. “If he actually wanted to be useful, he could have paid for your treatment.”

 

"…Well," Yukimura hedges, "he kind of did. His family found me the best doctors in England, and they paid for all of my parents' expenses to move closer to the hospital. We've been friends since kindergarten, so…"

 

Sanada grunts. “I suppose I can’t fault him for that, then,” he says, sounding as if he’d very much like to. “And I’m glad you’ll have someone to be with you in England.” England has always sounded like something of a shifty place to him.

 

"Mmm. We're staying in one of his castles, apparently," Yukimura hums, and he nuzzles his face into Sanada's hair. "But you've still got to pay attention to your phone more while I'm gone. I'll try to text at good hours, not in the middle of the night or anything like that." 

 

Sanada sighs, and butts his head against Yukimura’s chin gently. “For you, I’ll learn to text.”

 

"…Are you sure you aren't an old man?"

 

Sanada growls low in his throat. “No one texts me, all right? If I learned, they’d start thinking I wanted them to contact me.”

 

"Well, I'm going to text you. An obnoxious amount, probably; boyfriends do that." Supposedly. Atobe's always on _his_ phone, at any rate, and he and Niou certainly plotted out a number of horrible things via text.

 

Sanada is suddenly glad that Yukimura can’t see his face right now. “Well.” He clears his throat. “If it’s something boyfriends do, then...I’ll have to learn.”

 

His own face is pleasantly flushed, and Yukimura wiggles contently back against the wall. "Does that mean you're officially asking me? Because I demand bragging rights."

 

Sanada pulls back, looking Yukimura in the face. “You think I do things like that with just anyone?” he demands, face burning. “Yes, I’m asking you. Will you be my boyfriend? Tch, that sounds stupid aloud.”

 

"No, it sounds really good. It's a definite yes." Yukimura grabs him again as he leans up, stealing a kiss with an easy smile. This is a problem. He's not supposed to be so happy about this. Or maybe he's supposed to actually have something to be happy about for the first time in awhile, because it feels really, really good. "Ah--hmm. Question," he carefully begins, because it determines a lot, really, "how are your parents about…things like this? I mean, do they know?"

 

“About you? Probably not.” Sanada leans back on his legs, settling easily into seiza as a force of long practice. “About me, yes. But we don’t talk about it, and I make an effort not to shame them. They...ah, well, they already have a grandchild, my mother says she isn’t in a hurry to have more of them.” It hadn’t been exactly traumatic, but lying to his parents hadn’t seemed like a good course of action. He’d taken it upon himself to have a conversation with them a couple years earlier, with surprisingly low-key results. “They’re very Japanese. They don’t mind as long as I don’t start dressing like Hard Gay or announcing it at school.”

 

Yukimura exhales a relieved sigh. "That's good, then. Don't worry, I'm not going to be weird about it or anything; I just wanted to know. My parents…they don't care at all. I mean, my mom's a _fashion designer_ , and my dad and I have a very similar sense of humor. By that, I mean he's awful. Sorry in advance for when you meet him."

 

Sanada shrugs. “I figured that since you were so European it might not be the same. I’m just glad they’re not bad about it.” He bites his lip, thinking about how to ask his question. “I...can I ask for clarification? What does it mean to you, what we are now? I don’t want to make a mistake.”

 

"Mm? But I told you before, if we're together, then it's an exclusive thing." Yukimura blinks back at Sanada. "You really can't make a mistake. At least, I can't think of one that you could make. I'm pretty new to this whole boyfriends thing, too."

 

Sanada’s smile is shy, relieved. “I mostly wanted to make sure I’d have you all to myself,” he admits. “You’re so...everyone at school wants you. Not that I’m jealous, I just...you’re always having such grand adventures, it seems. It’s like you’re made for them.”

 

"Huh?" Yukimura's brow furrows. "You're kidding, right? I'm pretty sure everyone at school is scared of me or just thinks I'm weird. And my grand adventures consist of running laps around the neighborhood and sulking in my room with a sketchbook. Japan has been awful since I've moved here."

 

“I’m sorry. But you are something of a legend at the school, you know. Not many transfer students would make it onto the tennis team, or get caught on the rooftops...hmmm……”

 

Yukimura's expression shifts wry. "Ah. I don't really pay attention to gossip, though, so I wouldn't know." He sighs, sinking back against the wall with a shrug. "To be fair…I didn't really give anything here a chance because the thought of not being in England was just insult to injury. I actually came back here last summer, stayed in rehab, and I was _supposed_ to go to Shitenhouji, but I wanted so badly to be at a school with a real tennis program…a lot of good that's done me. Sorry for harassing you so much to play doubles with me when we've never really played a match. I just really wanted to play."

 

Sanada rolls his eyes. “ _Shitenhouji_ , really? You’re too good for that school. I am sorry, that we’ve never played. After Nationals, I don’t mind if you want to be doubles partners again.” He snorts, and adds, “Though I bet there’ll be an open singles spot, and no one deserves it more than you.”

 

"One of my good friends goes there, be nice. They wanted me to be captain." Shiraishi probably hates him, now, though--no, that's not right. Shiraishi can't hate anyone, and that's the problem. Yukimura sighs, shrugging again. "I'm just not good at doubles. It would be great to play in singles again, but I'm not sure I'm cut out for being on a school team. Again, no one really _likes me_ here. Kind of puts a damper on team spirit." He probably sounds whiny and pathetic, and maybe that's why he's never exactly said a word about any of this before. 

 

“Of course people like you.” Sanada rolls his eyes. “Niou obviously likes you. Marui thinks you’re cool. Jackal likes you. Yagyuu has been writing poetry about you for months. And, you know, I like you, a bit.”

 

Yukimura stares back at him, lost. "…When has all of this been happening? Other than the Niou thing, I got that part down."

 

Sanada’s smile is pointed. “You know all those practices you skip?”

 

"Oh. Wait, do you all just sit around and talk behind my back?" Yukimura punches his shoulder. "That's really obnoxious." 

 

Sanada doesn’t even grunt. “Of course. This is Japan. Everyone talks. We just don’t admit we talk.”

 

"It's gross. You're gross. And if someone's writing poetry about me, they should at least tell me to my face, otherwise that's weird."

 

“Mm, I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it before. You were dating his boyfriend.”

 

"Wait, what?" Christ, he's missed a lot apparently. Yukimura groans and flops backwards. "Why did you ever act like I was the spawn of the devil? I feel like a saint compared to all of you now." 

 

“Don’t lump me in with them. I was never interested in _them_.” Sanada scowls, feeling somehow that his honor has been impugned. “This wouldn’t happen if you didn’t sleep around. Or if you asked him first, I’m sure he would have told you.”

 

Yukimura scowls back at him. "It's not like I care because we weren't _exclusive_ , but--look, I already told you, it's not like I've been with that many people. It's just…there's something to be said about enjoying _opportunities_ , especially when you've come close to dying. Being able to feel things properly is a nice thing and sex happens to feel pretty damn good usually."

 

Sanada’s face flushes, and he takes that opportunity to pick himself off the floor. He scoops up his sword while he’s at it, thrusting it through the belt of his hakama. “I wouldn’t know.”

 

"I know. And that's fine, too." Yukimura stares up at him, not bothering to stand up just yet. "Just don't get grumpy at _me_ for having had sex with a handful of people. I'm saving myself for youuuu now." 

 

“I’m not grumpy about it!” Ah, well, so he sounds grumpy about it. He adds, a bit gruffly, “And I’m sorry you were dying.”

 

"Me, too. But I'm not dying now, so that's the important part." Yukimura hauls himself to his feet. "You wanna hear about my first time?" he teases. "Or would you prefer _not_ having full disclosure?" 

 

Sanada offers a hand, helping the other boy up off the floor. “I...wouldn’t mind hearing,” he admits. “It’s nice, to know you had a first time as well. Makes me feel less nervous. If you don’t mind talking about it.”

 

"…You're going to think it's weird," Yukimura says with a quiet laugh, slowly twining their fingers together to keep Sanada from releasing his hand just yet. "It was after I finally was out of the hospital, back home in our apartment, and…well, it _was_ weird, so judge away." His eyes lid as he shrugs. "I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't sleep, and snuck out because I _could_ , you know? I'd been more or less bedridden for eight months, and it was nice just being able to escape and go somewhere. There was…mm. It was just a guy on a street corner, when I stopped running for a bit--we didn't even know each other, and there was an alleyway--" Yukimura looks up at him, expression wry. "It wasn't _much_ of anything at all. Just kind of…rubbing on one another until we got off, and we never saw one another again. But it was the best thing I had felt in months, and I don't regret it." 

 

The idea of that--of Yukimura’s first time being with a stranger--of being with someone in such an intimate way, so _casually_ —

 

The thought of it all makes Sanada’s breath catch. He frowns, hands fiddling at the waistband of his hakama. “Honestly,” he says, not meeting Yukimura’s eyes, “I can’t even tell you if that story is disgusting or arousing. You’re really confusing.”

 

"Probably a little of both," Yukimura brightly replies. "We can do it for the first time in an alleyway if you want. Or a tennis court. That might be better."

 

Sanada trips over a carefully-laid stone in the garden. “Yukimura! You’re so shameless!”

 

"Well, _yes_. If you have other suggestions, then by all means--ah, _we_ could do it on the roof. Then you can have some rumors spread about you, too."

 

“ _Or_ ,” Sanada grinds out, trying to remember why he thought this was a good idea--oh, right, the erections— “We could do it in on a _futon_ , like _normal_ people. And not worry about sunburn or bugs or being arrested.”

 

Yukimura huffs, folding his arms. "That's fine _sometimes_. Where's your sense of adventure? At least let's do it on _my_ bed, it's huge and comfy."

 

“Fine.” Agreeing makes it sound so much more _final_ , and Sanada’s cock gives a twitch so firm it’s almost audible. “When you come back from England. And...you know, when it’s right. We’ll know.”

 

 _It felt pretty right tonight_ Yukimura wants to say, but he's not _entirely_ correct there. It'll be right when he doesn't have a stupid bet looming over his head. 

 

That being said, it's kind of hard not to let his eyes trail down and think about a number of inappropriate things. "Probably," he idly suggests, "I should go home. Before I want to keep climbing you like a tree and think _everything_ is right."

 

“If you stay much longer,” Sanada admits, “my mother is going to demand that she drives you home. You _don’t_ want to listen to the crap that she considers music for the drive. Or make room among her stuffed animals.”

 

Yukimura blinks at him. "You're never allowed to give my mom weird looks again."

 

“Your mom makes you wear a dress.”

 

"Only sometimes. And she pays me." Yukimura's eyebrows raise. "Also, you'd approve if you saw me."

 

Sanada swallows. “That’s not fair,” he informs Yukimura. “I don’t like okama. That’s not something I want to question.”

 

"Big difference between okama and me in a dress," Yukimura hums. "Don't worry, it's not something I deal with often. You'll be spared."

 

They both sound like ‘boy in a dress’ to Sanada, but he keeps his mouth shut. “If it’s you,” he admits finally, “I’ll probably like it. Don’t let that go to your head, you’re just good-looking.”

 

"Noted! Though I still think you should give me some advice about where I could use a bit of extra muscle, that'll make me even _better_ looking," Yukimura teases, _really_ unable to help himself from grabbing one of Sanada's hands and setting it against his thigh. "I've been told I'm a little too squishy here, opinions?" 

 

Sanada’s eyes narrow. “Now you’re just being lewd to try and get me to do something.” He’s not entirely sure that if he does, he’ll be able to stop himself. Still, backing down every time for fear that he’ll punch a hole through the front of his hakama isn’t doing him any favors, and he slowly squeezes Yukimura’s thigh with one large hand. “You feel good to me.”

 

"This isn't lewd, it was just an honest question." Yukimura smiles up at him, and thinks about how Sanada's hands would feel on his thighs in a dozen other ways. "Do you _want_ me to be lewd? Otherwise, you should definitely check everywhere to make sure my muscle tone is appropriate."

 

Sanada withdraws his hand. He can still feel the lingering warmth, and clenches his fist to try and dispel some of it. It doesn’t work. “That’s not how I want it to be.”

 

Yukimura tries not to roll his eyes. "I'm teasing you. Relax, I already promised we'd wait until after I came back, remember?" He reaches out, gently tugging at the sleeve of Sanada's uniform. "If it really bothers you, I'll behave until then. Or at least reduce the teasing amount by about half." 

 

Sanada reaches down suddenly, scooping Yukimura up in his arms, lifting him by the waist to give him a long, slow kiss. He pulls away, eyes half-closed, and says quietly, “I just hate knowing you’re leaving right when we’re starting. I have a lot of ideas.”

 

"Ah," is all Yukimura manages for a moment, and damn, is it hard not to just sort of…melt. And lie there. He gives up after a second of trying to resist, and flops in Sanada's hold, hooking his chin over his shoulder. _This_ is nice. It's nice enough to make him say some pretty stupid things, including: "I can come back earlier, so we have more of summer vacation together." 

 

The smile Sanada gives him is a little shy, a little boyish, at odds on the serious frame of his face. “You’re going to have fun, right? Don’t worry. We’ll have...I mean, I _hope_ we’ll have a really long time, after you get back. Like next summer vacation.” That’s probably presumptuous.

 

Yukimura muffles a laugh into his shoulder. "You're assuming you're going to put up with me for that long." 

 

“You’ll get bored of me first, I guarantee.”

 

"Nope. I haven't even beaten you in a tennis match yet."

 

“Be fair,” Sanada says, lifting his swords and heading back for the main house. “Almost no one has.”

 

"Mmm. That's good. And very attractive. You're not going to start being rude to me like you are to Tezuka if I beat you, though, are you?"

 

Sanada’s face contorts into a scowl. “That has nothing to do with him beating me. That has to do with him being _Tezuka_.” He really can’t help but spit the name. It’s instinct by now.

 

Yukimura's eyebrows arch high. "Uh huh. What am I missing? He's basically just a shy nerd that happens to enjoy Keigo and his mole, as far as I've seen."

 

That starts something that can only be described as a “rant,” that goes on for what can only be described as “a while.” By the end of it, Sanada isn’t sure how many times they’ve circled the courtyard, though a few times he’d had to stop and make diagrams in the dirt with a stick to illustrate his point. “And he never even _catches a fish!_ ”

 

"Okay," Yukimura says, blinking rapidly. "I shouldn't have asked." Basically, what it comes down to is old family rivalries (or so he can gather), and also, some kind of weird 'whose dick is bigger' contest. "I'll…try not to fraternize with him terribly much, then?" Not that he ever does, because Atobe and Tezuka monopolize one another's time, and that's fine. It won't be the first time he's gone off wandering in London entirely by himself.

 

Sanada cocks his head, getting his rage-breath back. “Why would I care if you associate with him?” he asks, genuinely confused. “It’s not your problem, it’s mine. You can be friends with whoever you want.”

 

"Oh, I'll still be friends with him. It's sort of inevitable, having to like your best friend's boyfriend and all of that…I just won't tell him intimate secrets about your tennis play, that'd be a little too cruel." 

 

“It’s inevitable?” Sanada turns that over, not sure if he’s pleased. “Who’s your best friend that I have to like, then?”

 

"Keigo." Yukimura pauses. "…In this case, it's okay if you just tolerate him." 

 

Sanada sighs. “I’ll try. That’s all I can promise. He’s not very tolerable.”

 

"He is if you realize he's just a giant baby. You can be a little judgmental, you know that?" Yukimura chides, giving Sanada's shoulder a gentle punch. 

 

“He’s _not_ a baby. I’m good with babies. No babies have an ego the size of the Skytree.”

 

It's probably no good to get into how Atobe is one of the nicer people that Yukimura has ever met, and also among the most insecure and constantly stressed out, so if _anyone_ is the one with the hyperactive ego, it's _him_. Instead, he just shrugs. "Eh. He isn't everyone's cup of tea. Whatever--kiss me good night, and I'm going to escape before your mother subjects me to, ah, stuffed animals."

 

That softens Sanada’s expression, and he leans down, brushing a kiss across full lips without bothering to check around to see if anyone is watching first. “I’ll walk you to the door,” he offers, and kneels down to take off Yukimura’s borrowed outdoor slippers.

 

Atobe is going to tease him _relentlessly_. 

 

Yukimura is still smiling when he leaves, though, and the run home doesn't feel as long or tedious as it usually does. 

 

**To: Keikei**

**Subject: give desu**

**[have mercy, the win is yours]**

 

**To: Sei-chan**

**Subject:** **日本語ができる？**

**[I shall be merciful. I really just want to know what noises you make, you know. When do you want to leave?]**

 

**To: Keikei**

**Subject: i never want to see another kanji again stop it**

**[they're good noises. i don't want to miss practice this week, so let's still do the weekend thing]**

 

**To: Sei-chan**

**Subject: give desu**

**[Do you need any accessories, accoutrements, compensation? I can, of course, provide.]**

 

**To: Keikei**

**Subject: good boy**

**[don't be gross, i'll see you this weekend and i'll be all yours. also, i have stories.]**

 

Good ones, even if Atobe's going to tease him. Whatever, at least they aren't knitting scarves for one another (yet).

 


	5. Chapter 5

Shiraishi waits a few days this time before accepting that there isn’t going to be an answering text message. He doesn’t send another (“Just checking to see that you got my last message! (:”) because if anything, that seems to work against him, despite the fact that Yukimura’s told him how his phone eats text messages over and over again. 

 

It’s just a sort of bad day. It hadn’t helped that he’d drawn Rikkai earlier for the team they’ll face first, and he knows perfectly well that he’s about as close to beating that team as he is to getting a confession from Hatsune Miku. 

 

He lays in bed for a while, listening to Kubriel’s wings opening and closing, letting the warm damp air drift in through the window. The curtains ruffle, but his roommates don’t quiet down--they’re doing homework, and he doesn’t have the heart to stop them.

 

After an hour, he grabs his robe and pads in slippered feet over to Chitose’s medical single room, knocking once, quietly. _He’s probably not in. He leaves a lot, and definitely has a hundred better things to do._

 

It's hot enough early in the day that getting out of bed and wandering about seems less than pleasant, and so for that, Shiraishi is in luck.

 

Chitose slowly rolls, untangling himself from the sheets he's still comfortably wrapped up in, and slowly drifts to the door, opening it even as he fights back a yawn. Ah. Yeah. It makes sense. There are few people that ever come and seek him out (Kintarou doesn't count, he's like a wild animal that sometimes remembers that tourists hand out food), and Shiraishi's one of them, especially when he's got that sad, lonely look on his face like he does right now. 

 

"Noisy over in your room again?" he offers, because Shiraishi tends to need a reason. Even if Chitose doesn't _care_ about that, he gets it. 

 

Shiraishi nods in quiet relief. Chitose is so _relaxed_ about everything, a skill Shiraishi kind of hopes will rub off if they spend enough time together. “I’m not interrupting, am I? I can go…”

 

"I just rolled out of bed, nothing about that to interrupt." Chitose drags himself away from the door again, and immediately makes to flop back down. It's going to be one of those days, he thinks. Lazing about is good once in awhile, especially when he doesn't get up early enough to beat the heat, and Shiraishi looks like he's going to climb out the window and jump out. "We can be lazy together, if you want, unless you wanna stress about Nationals. Let's not do that." 

 

Shiraishi hesitates before settling. He’s pretty sure he’s _supposed_ to sit on the chair, like any normal guest (except Kintarou, who almost always crouches on the floor or on top of furniture) would do...but this is Chitose, who so rarely cares whether he does something normal or not. He shuffles a little closer, awkward and shy the way he never is during the daytime. “Do you...mind?”

 

Chitose just _looks_ at him before swinging out one arm, grabbing Shiraishi by the wrist, and bodily hauling him onto the bed. It's better to just kind of… _immerse_ Shiraishi at times. He thinks too much, ends up in weird stress loops. "Seriously, captain," he sighs, patting Shiraishi's head as he drags the other boy all but on top of him. "I've got a list of about five things that I mind. You're never one of them."

 

That makes Shiraishi relax the way little else does, and he burrows instantly into Chitose’s chest. Judging by the smell, he’s pretty sure that at least one of those five things is “sobriety,” but it’s never affected Chitose’s game or health, so he’s never said anything. He buries his face in the taller boy’s chest, breathing out slowly as he starts to unwind. “Sorry,” he mutters. “He just--am I that bad?” Stupid, he sounds so dumb and pathetic, and he’s not _usually_ insecure at all, Seiichi just brings that out in him.

 

 _Here we go_. "Still on that one, huh." Shiraishi is easy to tuck underneath his chin and wrap himself around, which is good, because no matter how he starts relaxing at the start of things, he always ends up a little freaked later on and if Chitose's got a good hold on him, he's not going anywhere. "There's nothing wrong with you, Kurarin. It's just not meant to be, and that's fine." 

 

Shiraishi huffs out a breath, eyes closing almost automatically at the comforting warmth of Chitose’s body. Strange, how he can be annoyed by the warmth in the air, but soothed by the warmth of another person. “He said he didn’t want to date anyone,” he mutters, “then the next week said he couldn’t date me because he had a boyfriend. I--it’s hard not to take that personally.”

 

Chitose exhales a long, slow sigh. "Sounds like to me," he eventually settles upon, "that he doesn't really know _what_ he wants. There's no personal insult in that, just a whole lot of his issues." He idly tugs on a strand of Shiraishi's hair. "Honestly, Kurarin, did you ever wanna date the guy in the first place? You never mentioned it before that party."

 

Ah, he doesn’t feel too good about that. Shiraishi butts his head into Chitose’s hand, sighing. “I always liked him a lot. We were childhood friends, and he was _going_ to come to Shitenhouji and be a good captain, so we’d actually have a chance at making Top Four. Then…”

 

He curls up a bit. “He was just really insistent, and I…” If there’s anyone he can be honest about this kind of thing with, it’s Chitose. “I had no idea it could be like that. And he _said_ he liked me,” he finishes plaintively.

 

Chitose curls his fingers against the back of Shiraishi's head, slowly rubbing down to his scalp. "Sounds like he likes you…as a friend." No use sugarcoating it; Shiraishi doesn't need to hear it like that right now, and Chitose's not the best at lying about things that are better off just being said. "Friends can do that kind of stuff all the time, too, you know. Sex doesn't have to mean romance, and…you know, you need to stop being negative, _you're_ a good captain and we haven't lost the Nationals yet. Even if we do, you're still a good captain."

 

Shiraishi lets out a grumpy, self-deprecating noise at that. “You’ve _had_ good captains,” he mutters. “You at least know the difference. Maybe the rest of the team likes me well enough, but I don’t know how to lead them to victory. Everyone’s worked so hard...I just want them to feel _rewarded_ for it. Maybe I can take them out for ice cream when we lose,” he finishes, a bit miserably. “I’ll start saving.”

 

"Kurarin, if you're gonna keep drowning yourself in negativity, you're gonna end up drowning everyone else in it, too," Chitose sighs, and ends up smooshing Shiraishi's face down into his neck again. "You've already led us to victory. We're at the top of the Kansai region, and no one else can say that. Best four would be great, but it's not like we don't have next year to try again if it doesn't happen. You're better than any other captain we could have had, so stop worrying about what you'll do if we lose. It doesn't _matter_." 

 

“Everyone just deserves so much more,” Shiraishi sighs, nuzzling against that long neck. “Everyone works so hard. Even you, no offense.” 

 

He looks up, a little desperate. “We have fun playing tennis together, right? We have a lot more fun than they do on Rikkai, I know it. _I_ wouldn’t want to go anywhere else, even if they were number one.”

 

Chitose kind of gives up. He grabs Shiraishi's face, hauls him up a few inches, and presses a firm kiss to his forehead. He just kind of looks like he needs it, like he's starving for even the tiniest bit of affectionate, and that's sad. "I'd rather play here than anywhere else," he agrees. "And I'm pretty sure no one else thinks they deserve better than you, because you're already pretty much perfect, Kura. Your friend doesn't know what he's missing, because you've got, like, _hordes_ of admirers."

 

Shiraishi blinks several times, startled by the honest kindness in Chitose’s hands, his voice. He’d forgotten how _nice_ people can be, while wandering around Tokyo. “Dunno about that,” he says, blinking a few more times for good measure. “All of you are the perfect ones, I just want to be the captain you deserve.” Then, because Chitose is warm and comforting and has the nicest voice, he wriggles over on top of the other boy. “Can I lay here?”

 

"Yeah." Chitose slings an arm around him in short order. "A little bit of doubt is good, you know. Keeps you on your toes, makes you change stuff about yourself…but don't be so negative that it weighs you down like this. Do I need to tell you about tennis balls and stuff again or do you have that down pat?" He might tell Shiraishi again, just to make sure.

 

Shiraishi butts his head under Chitose’s chin. “I like it when you talk about tennis balls. It puts everything in perspective.”

 

"Yeah, well. We're all just tennis balls." Shiraishi's kind of like a cat right now, and so Chitose scritches his fingers down his spine. "Bouncing around the court of life, hit by the rackets of fate--point is, not everything's in your control, so stop worrying about it so much. Easier said than done for some of us, but you've gotta at least try to relax. In this case, give up on trying to be this guy's boyfriend, it's not worth it. Just go back to being his friend, if you wanna do that. In the case of Nationals--it is what it is, we've done our best and we'll do our best at Nationals, too."

 

“Rather just be with all of you,” Shiraishi admits. “None of you ever make me feel like I’m….you know.” _Not good enough._

 

He rubs at his eyes, the familiar headaches coming on. “You mind being my eyes tonight? Er, eye?”

 

"Still got one good one," Chitose brightly hums, and he stretches over, pawing through the drawer in the bedside table. "You left your spare contact lens case in here from the other day. I call that fate." 

 

Shiraishi breathes a sigh of relief, and rolls off the bed to his feet, padding to the unit bath in the corner. It only takes a minute to take out his lenses, and he groans a little when his eyes finally do their sad best to adjust. “Talk?” he asks. “So I can find my way back.”

 

"Kurarin, you're too cute when you're blind," Chitose mildly says, and he sits up, scooting to the end of the bed and stretching out a hand. "It's--hmm, seven steps forward, and then I'll grab you."

 

Shiraishi is pretty sure he’s curving to the right. He over-corrects, and smacks promptly into the night table. “Ah.” 

 

A bit more fumbling, and he grabs for Chitose’s hand, grinning as he lets himself be tugged down. “Thanks for catching me, Senri.” It’s a bit awkward as he climbs back on the bed, but at least Chitose can see, mostly. “Mm, sorry to inconvenience you tonight, but I _do_ already feel better. Do you mind horribly if I stay?”

 

"Haven't left bed all day, and wasn't planning on it tonight," Chitose says with a grin of his own, and flops back down, hauling Shiraishi with him. It's not the easiest, fitting both of them on the bed, but Shiraishi likes lying on top of him more, which is really just fine. "So long as you feel better, you can stay as long as you want." 

 

“You don’t mind, then?” He’s already asked, but Chitose’s such a _nice_ guy, and Shiraishi hates feeling like he’s taking advantage. He especially wants it to be okay when Chitose smells nice, feels solid, and is warm and easy to touch. He’s probably enjoying it a little too much, how nice it feels to be touched and petted a bit. “You...you can pet me more. Ah, sorry, that sounds dumb.”

 

"Contemplating smothering you to make you stop being all…doubt-y," Chitose sighs, and he shoves Shiraishi's face down into his neck again before running a hand back through his hair. "I don't mind, doesn't sound dumb. You're good company, Kura, just chill." 

 

It’s nice, to burrow into Chitose’s neck. “Mm,” he says, the sound of giving up. “Ah, did Miyuki get the doll I made her? It’s supposed to be good luck. I thought that with all the stress she’s having lately, it might be nice.”

 

"Yeah, she got it. She keeps it in her tennis bag." Chitose's smile twitches wry. "It's weird, but you two are a lot alike. I think she's actually got a bit of a crush on you because of it. Feel honored, my sister is pretty cool." 

 

Shiraishi beams at that. “I’m flattered. She’s been exposed to you all her life, right? She must have good taste. Ah, Senri, I thought of a joke. Can I tell it to you, and if it’s funny, I’ll pass it on to the team tomorrow?”

 

"My sense of humor isn't always the best judge, but go for it." That's probably an understatement. He thinks some weird things are funny for sure, and sometimes, Shiraishi's jokes are so awful that they're just _fantastic_ and he ends up being the only one that thinks so. Oh well. 

 

“Great!” Shiraishi giggles a little to himself, then raises up on his elbows, arranging himself a little better above where he’s pretty sure Chitose is--whoops, that’s a leg between the taller boy’s legs, but it’s probably fine. “Ah, what’s Michael Jackson’s favorite color?”

 

Chitose's eyebrows raise, and he flops his head back onto a pillow, adjusting to better haul Shiraishi on top of him. Still between his legs, but whatever works. It wouldn't be the first time they've ended up curled up like this. "Dunno, what is it?" 

 

“Blue!” Ah, that’s funny, and Shiraishi can’t help the laughter, until he’s having a bit of trouble breathing, head thunking against Chitose’s chest. [Author's Note 1]

 

God _damn it_. That shouldn't be funny, but it _is_ , and Chitose settles for shoving his face down into Shiraishi's hair to stifle his own laughter. "They're going to hate it," he breezily manages. "Tell it anyway."

 

It takes a few minutes for Shiraishi to get himself under control. “I hope it makes Zaizen laugh,” he says fondly. “He needs some more laughter in his life. I’d have invited him in here tonight, but he always goes to bed so _early_.”

 

"He needs to lighten up a little bit," Chitose sighs out, letting his head fall back again with a thump. "He's just got a one-track mind, I think. If he keeps being a stick in the mud, just do your ecstasy thing again. Always works."

 

“But _why_ does it always work? That’s not even a joke! The only person who usually laughs at that is you, and that’s only when you’re…”

 

"Shhhh, technicalities, Kurarin. Making someone laugh is better than no one at all."

 

“Are you right now?” Shiraishi doesn’t really like putting words to it--and it doesn’t bother him when it’s Chitose, anyway. “Sometimes when you are and I fall asleep here I get a headache in the morning, is all.”

 

"If it gives you a headache, then you should tell me and I won't do anything while you're here." No matter his own habits, Chitose's not really interested in messing with Shiraishi's system; he's kind of a delicate thing in his own way, anyway. "Wasn't planning on anything, anyway," he sighs out all the same, giving Shiraishi's back an easy rub. "The closer we get to a big match, the less helpful it is."

 

Ah, the match. Shiraishi huffs out a breath, wriggling a bit under Chitose’s calming touch. “Don’t remind me. I kind of feel like we should be out practicing right now. Well, me, at least. I know you’ll win, if you feel like playing.”

 

"You work harder than all of us combined, Kura. I don't think you should worry so much." Chitose lazily nuzzles at Shiraishi's hair. "I've lost before, even when I've given it my all. I'm not immune to anything, it's just how it is sometimes."

 

“I know, I know. I just...want to give them all a win.” Shiraishi shrugs. “Just one. They work _so_ hard, and who knows when we’re all going to be together again on the same….mm, that feels good, Senri, you shouldn’t stop.”

 

"We've still got two years of high school left; we can try again next year if we don't make it this year." Encouragement is encouragement, and so Chitose flops partially to the side, rolling Shiraishi with him to better pull him close and bury his own face into the other boy's hair. "But we haven't lost yet, so don't give way to manifest destiny. And hey, we _definitely_ have more fun than Rikkai's team does, so we're already better off there."

 

That, at least, brings a genuine smile to Shiraishi’s face. “Whoever laughs the most, wins, right? We _definitely_ laugh the most. Except Zaizen, but even he laughs more than some of the statues on Rikkai. Ah, they don’t sound like they enjoy tennis at _all_ , from what Seiichi told me. It’s all drills and bitterness, no fun at all.” He leans up without thinking about it, rubbing his face on Chitose’s, and doesn’t mind much when his lips brush against the other boy’s. It’s just _Chitose_ , it’s not like anything horrible will come of it, and kissing him might be sort of nice, on a night like this.

 

Hmm. It would probably be easier to talk about how if Shitenhouji ever turned into drills and bitterness, he'd be out of there in a flash, but Shiraishi is awfully close to him now, and his lips are soft and warm. If he were a better person, maybe he'd just kinda ignore it and let it be, but as it is…eh, maybe it's better that he does actually say something. "Kura…y'know, if you start kissing someone, it's easier said than done to stop," Chitose sighs out, flopping his head down onto the pillow. "Especially when they're pretty."

 

Shiraishi’s smile is a bit hesitant, but determined nonetheless. “I can stop if you want me to, even if you _are_ pretty,” he insists.

 

Chitose's brow knits. "When did your charm stat go up? Also, you're at least five times prettier."

 

Shiraishi laughs, and wriggles up to press a swift kiss, a _proper_ one this time, to Chitose’s lips. They don’t taste like anything weird, just salt that might be left over from sunflower seeds or something, and Shiraishi pulls back, licking his lips. “At least I didn’t miss. I was careful. Can...can I keep going?”

 

"…You're sure you want to?" Ah, Chitose doesn't want to be _that guy_ , but seriously, Shiraishi's been a little off lately. "Trust me--I don't have any complaints about you kissing me," he adds with a quiet laugh. "Just…hmm. You've been hung up on that Seiichi guy, and I don't want to make things weird for you." 

 

Shiraishi frowns, and attempts to brush the hair out of Chitose’s face. At least he misses in the right direction and just thunks his wrapped hand against the bed instead of poking his one good eye out. “I just don’t know why he doesn’t think I’m any good,” he says, trying not to sound plaintive. “It’s not like I’m in _love_ with him or anything, I just….it hurt my feelings. Ah, I sound like a child, I know. I’m not trying to do anything to you, Senri, I just...you’re so nice to lie with, I thought you’d be nice to kiss, too.”

 

Chitose heaves a long, slow sigh, and nods, even though he knows Shiraishi can't entirely see it. "It sounds like to me," he says, reaching out to grab Shiraishi's hand and tug it back, setting it on his hair properly for him, "that it's not so much about thinking you're no good. Because honestly, _anyone_ would look at you and think you're something special. You're just that kind of guy, whether you wanna believe it or not. Anyway--my feelings would be hurt, too, so I get that. Just…maybe try not to stress about it so much, and think about how it's his weirdness, not yours. Because I'm like twenty thousand percent sure he's got issues and you don't and I'm definitely up for kissing, I just don't want to make it weird with _us_." 

 

“Just don’t stop returning my phone calls tomorrow,” Shiraishi assures him, “and it won’t be weird. I _want_ to still be his friend, you know? But he doesn’t even want to talk to me anymore--ah, I don’t want to talk about him any more tonight.” Chitose is a lot more interesting, courtesy of being _here_ , and also of being _not an asshole_. His hand strokes gently, carding back that interesting thick hair he’s seen on so many Kyuushuu islanders, and that at least gives him a good reference point for leaning down into another kiss.

 

Not talking about guys that hardly treat Shiraishi right is a really good idea, especially if it ends in kisses instead.

 

Small reservations aside, it's obvious enough that Shiraishi knows what he wants, which as far as Chitose is concerned is more than good enough. He exhales a breath through his nose, wraps a hand back up through Shiraishi's hair, and drags him down at a better angle for kisses, their noses bumping only once before Chitose gets a good chance to nibble on Shiraishi's lower lip and _really_ savor the softness of Shiraishi's mouth against his own.

 

Shiraishi doesn’t remember kissing Yukimura all that well, courtesy of way too much wine.

 

Even so, he’s pretty sure it wasn’t as nice as this.

 

He remembers excitement, bursting nervousness, and the heady drag of lips against lips. That had been all well and good, but this is nice _without_ being stressful, delicious and comforting all at the same time, just like Chitose himself. “Senri,” he murmurs against slightly chapped lips, and kind of likes the way his voice comes out. It’s better, because Chitose is holding him, and feels like home, and doesn’t mind that he’s twice as blind as Chitose himself, and will definitely return his calls in the morning.

 

"Mmnn?" Chitose _does_ like the way Shiraishi sounds--pleased and content and excited all at once, and he shifts a bit, lazily throwing one long leg over Shiraishi's hip. It's easier to tug him closer like that, and he runs his fingers along Shiraishi's scalp, down the back of his neck as he kisses him again. "If you get sick of it, we can stop," Chitose says, unconcerned. "You're pretty good at this, though."

 

“Really?” That pleases Shiraishi more than he’d expected, and he flushes pink with pleasure, or maybe just a bit from the kisses. “Don’t think I’ll get sick of it. You have the _nicest_ hands, did you know?”

 

They’re fantastic, running down his neck, making him shiver and wriggle in Chitose’s lap, against his hips without really meaning to. Odd, how he’s less nervous between another man’s thighs than he’d been when Seiichi was just trying to touch him through his shirt. _Maybe it’s because I’ve Done It now. Is that how that works?_

 

"Long fingers, good for something," Chitose hums, and he laughs a little against Shiraishi's mouth when he squirms. "You act like I'm tickling you, though. Seriously, before the Nationals, you're getting a real massage and _relaxing_ all the way, even if it kills you." 

 

Another roll and shift of weight, and Shiraishi ends up on his back. His hair looks good splayed across Chitose's pillow, and he leans down, nuzzling up underneath Shiraishi's chin before kissing him again, slow and easy and drawn out. 

 

Yeah, that feels better than it probably should.

 

It’s easier when he can’t see anything. Everything is reduced to _feel_ , and Shiraishi finds that with Chitose, that’s a very good feeling indeed. “Feel relaxed right now,” he says, a lazy smile on his face as he fists his hands in Chitose’s yukata, tugging him down and close. “You relax me. Are you sure you didn’t light anything in here before I came in? Mm, maybe that’s just you.”

 

"Keep bringing that up, and I'm just gonna assume you _want_ me to light something," Chitose grumbles at him, pliantly following that tug and flopping down in one easy, comfortable heap. His mouth finds Shiraishi's neck this time, teeth gently scraping against the side of it before he mouths a slow, warm kiss there and nuzzles up against his ear. "If this relaxes you, then we'll do it before your match, too," he teases. 

 

“‘Kay,” Shiraishi agrees easily. “Not in the locker room, though. If we did it there, everyone would want to join in. You’re too much fun to share.”

 

He tries not to squirm, but his legs part anyway, hips rolling slowly up against Chitose’s. “Nn, sensitive.”

 

"Eh, so long as it has a door that locks," Chitose points out with a grin, and ah, well, there goes keeping this sort of innocent. Shiraishi makes nice faces, feels good when he squirms underneath him, and try as he might to tell his body to _calm down_ , there's no helping it when he's settled so nicely between Shiraishi's thighs and can wriggle down against him. 

 

His breath exhales slow and hot against Shiraishi's neck, his fingers loosely curling around the leanness of his waist, and Chitose leans up to steal another kiss, swallowing the noise that wells up from Shiraishi's throat. "Kura," he breathes, "you're not playing fair." 

 

“I’m not?”

 

Shiraishi tightens his legs around Chitose’s waist, holding him still, reacting to the really _very_ nice hold on his own waist. He nuzzles up against Chitose’s neck, then kisses him again, nibbling on his lip in a way he’s seen in countless movies and always kind of wanted to try. “But I’m not gonna stop you or anything, so whatever you want is fine. So that’s fair, right? Ahh, not thinking in sense.” Chitose relaxes him too much. Maybe he hadn’t been drunk on wine with Seiichi after all, but just on the touch of his lips. His hands come up to wriggle under Chitose’s yukata, splaying out against his chest.

 

Chitose can't help but _squeeze_ , his breath hitching against Shiraishi's lips when he nips gently against his lower lip. "'kay, but, like--stop me for real, if you don't like it," he mutters, kissing him again more insistently, because like there's anyway he can resist when Shiraishi's touching and grabbing at him like that. It also just feels good to squirm down against him, the roll of his hips easy and content to just _enjoy_ , and Chitose muffles the rumble of a groan into Shiraishi's neck when he nibbles, then bites there, slow and affectionate. "You taste good." 

 

“I like it.” 

 

That part, at least, Shiraishi’s really firm about. Well, he’s getting pretty firm in other things, but that’s not really the same. Chitose is _great_ like this, good enough that Shiraishi spares a fleeting wish that this had been his first time, squeezed and kissed and rubbed on in the comfort of a familiar dorm room. At least this way, he’s not nervous  or afraid. 

 

But maybe that’s just because he’s with Chitose, and it’s impossible to be afraid of him. 

 

“You can keep going.” Shiraishi tangles his unbound hand in Chitose’s hair, running the bandaged one down his chest, enjoying the feel of the smooth skin over muscles.

 

It's probably better to stop worrying, because he's not good at that sort of thing anyway, and if Shiraishi says something, he definitely means it. 

 

Knowing that is all the incentive that Chitose needs to nibble again and suck a little when he bites this time, not quite able to help himself when Shiraishi is tugging at his hair and making breathy noises in his ear. If he leaves a mark, then--well, normally, he doesn't care so much about that, but the thought of it right now makes him shiver, and Chitose's hands slide down to curl around Shiraishi's hips, tugging him up into the next smooth roll of their hips, his own breath hitching raggedly. "We can just keep doing it like this, if you want," he murmurs, nuzzling up underneath Shiraishi's chin. "Or I can touch it--ah, I bet you're definitely pretty everywhere, Kura."

 

“Y-you can touch it, if you want.” The idea sounds pretty exciting, and Shiraishi’s hips snap up against Chitose’s, grinding up against him with every quickening roll of his body. “Mmh, that’s all I’ve done, you know?”

 

He finds himself wondering what Chitose looks like with his robes off, what he looks like hard, and something about that feels so _lewd_ that he almost starts laughing nervously. “It’s probably a bit delinquent, to want to do this, isn’t it?”

 

"Kind of implies there's something wrong with it if that's the case," Chitose hums, and decides Shiraishi's neck is still a good place to kiss when he's tugging at the elastic of his pajama pants. "Which there isn't. Kenya's got a girlfriend; how many times has he told you about the stuff he's done by now?" 

 

A dozen times more interesting, though, is how hard Shiraishi is underneath his hand, how he leaks over his fingers when he drags them over the head of his cock, and Chitose shivers, pressing another wet, sucking kiss into the curve of his shoulder. 

 

Ah, shit shit shit. “Don’t wanna think about Kenya either,” Shiraishi mutters, because Kenya is his brother more than anything, even if he’d sort of murmured a story about his girlfriend on her knees while the lights were off once, and they’d both pretended their hands weren’t moving. 

 

Shiraishi bucks under Chitose’s touch, gulping for air, and clings to the taller boy like a life rope. He ruts up against those long, talented fingers, turning his head blindly to try for a kiss, missing a good few times before he manages to smash their mouths together.

 

Chitose groans, his eyes fluttering shut when he gives into the urge to kiss Shiraishi as hard as he wants, and god, but it feels good being able to push him down and share those ragged, uneven breaths with him, to feel the way Shiraishi lurches up against him and clings to him. His own cock throbs, and he bites down against Shiraishi's lower lip gently, squirming, shifting to get his fingers around both of them, and the sticky-slickness of it all when they move together makes him hiss out a breath between his teeth, his pulse thudding in his ears. _This way_ , if they're going to do it, is better than anything.

 

God, that probably shouldn’t feel as good as it does.

 

Hearing Chitose get so _into_ it goes straight to Shiraishi’s cock, and he lurches up, moving almost frantically into his hand, bringing one of his own down to twine with Chitose’s. “Is--is it--okay?” he pants, desperately hoping to hear that it is. “Ah-hh, if you want, this is fine, you can—”

 

It’s hard to think of anything he _wouldn’t_ let Chitose do to him right now. He likes the feel of Chitose’s cock in his hand, thick and slippery and solid, and rubs the pad of his thumb over the tip, spreading the slick trails around.

 

"Ahh--god, Kura, that's _really_ good--" Telling Shiraishi that he's _cute_ wouldn't be a lie, but he can't get the words out, not when his cock twitches beneath their combined grasp, and he definitely leaves another mark somewhere on Shiraishi's neck when he kisses and sucks again, drawing out this bite with a lave of his tongue. Chitose drags his other hand up through Shiraishi's hair, stroking, petting as his hips grind forward, and that slick _slide_ makes his eyes roll back and his chest heave for lost breath. 

 

Shiraishi had thought that his first time was as good as anything could possibly feel.

 

So far, this is a lot better.

 

He can’t see, but he can’t breathe or think either, so that seems to be of little consequence. He ruts up, hips rolling frantically into their hands, his cock sliding across Chitose’s with every hard motion. His other hand yanks the other boy down, kissing him as hard as he can, biting and sucking on that lovely full lip, liking the way his lips feel swollen, warm. 

 

Everything _about_ Chitose is warm.

 

One last snap of his hips, and Shiraishi lurches, sucking in a rough breath when he comes over his hand and Chitose’s cock, making everything that much more slippery, pumping out more than he remembers coming in months as he buries his face into the other boy’s shoulder, shaking through his climax.

 

This is more insistent, needier, _desperate_ than Chitose has ever seen Shiraishi, and it's really, really _good_. 

 

Chitose's own breath is ragged and broken, thankful that he can barely make a sound between kisses, and feeling that extra slickness, the way Shiraishi clings to him and his fingers squeeze tighter, the way he shudders and trembles and _melts_ \--ahhh, it'd be more than enough, anyway, just with the way Shiraishi is touching him, but all of that combined makes it too much, and Chitose buries his face down into Shiraishi's hair, biting his own lip to muffle his voice when he spills, lurching into those slender fingers and into the mess they've both made. 

 

A quiet, breathy, pleased noise later, and Chitose just melts down as well, actually kind of liking the way they're both sweaty and a mess and sort of all tangled up. "Really good," he dazedly breathes, placing a kiss somewhere in the vicinity of Shiraishi's forehead.

 

“Hnfpm.” 

 

Shiraishi decides that will have to do for a response. Slowly, he drags his hand up along Chitose’s softening cock, bringing his hand up to peer blindly at it. _Shit, what am I supposed to do with this? Wipe it somewhere? Am I--I can’t remember, did Seiichi lick it or something? No, that’s too lewd, it would look forced, and I don’t need to impress him, it’s_ Senri _, he doesn’t care about things like that, and oh god, I’ve been staring at it for a really long time now._

 

"Gimme a sec, and I'll get us a towel." As it is, it's hard to do little more than snuggle and bury his face into Shiraishi's neck, no matter that they're both a sticky mess. "I promise it's not gonna bite you, Kura."

 

Shiraishi’s laugh isn’t as high or nervous as he’d expected. Chitose’s good for that. “I wasn’t worried,” he insists, stretching out blissfully beneath the other boy. “Just wasn’t sure if I was supposed to do something with it. You’d tell me if I did something wrong, right?”

 

"You're perfect, though; that's kinda your thing." Chitose nudges underneath his chin one last time before slowly, languidly rolling away and dangling an arm off the bed in search of a towel. "You _definitely_ didn't do anything wrong, though." 

 

“If you tell me how to do it all better, I can do more things right next time,” Shiraishi assures him. “Maybe I’ll have to come up with another Bible. Do you have any advice for me? I promise I can take criticism well.”

 

"Sex doesn't need a bible, Kura; if it feels good, and you're enjoying it, then do more of it." Chitose flops his way back over, and takes his time cleaning up the mess on Shiraishi first. "Next time, maybe you should be able to see," he idly muses. "Though it's cute when you can't. Just, eh, between the two of us, someone should be good at that."

 

Shiraishi arches, breath catching at the drag of the towel on his skin. “Then we should do more of it,” he says without thinking, “because that felt really good. Mm, gimme that, I’ll do you now.” He doesn’t _really_ need to see to swipe a towel over the other boy. How badly can he miss?

 

It's kind of sad not to at least let Shiraishi try. Chitose stretches out, and grabs Shiraishi's hand to at least put him in the general area. "Kura, you're kind of like a cat. Easily overstimulated," he observes, and settles for giving Shiraishi's hair pettings again.

 

“Mmm, just stimulated.” Shiraishi beams up at Chitose, moving his hand in a vague, guided circle before tossing the towel down to the floor. “If I’m a cat, are you a dog? You’re always so dependable. In your own...capricious way, that is.”

 

Eh, good enough. Chitose slings an arm back around Shiraishi and squishes him to his chest. "Maybe we're both cats. I like cats more than dogs. I had a cat that would fetch like a dog once."

 

“Cool! Ah, I wasn’t allowed to have pets growing up,” Shiraishi reminisces, curling up happily against Chitose’s chest. “My father’s allergic to almost everything. But now I have Kuubriel, at least.”

 

"Kuubriel's pretty awesome. He suits you, I think." Chitose drags a blanket up and around them, wriggling them both close together. "I'm glad you feel better now, Kura."

 

Shiraishi turns his head to place a soft kiss to Chitose’s shoulder, looking blurrily up at him. “Honestly,” he admits, “I haven’t felt this good in a long time. Thanks, Senri.”

 

"Didn't do much," Chitose hums, but he kisses Shiraishi's hair again all the same. "Just pettings. But I'm still glad I could help a little. It's always better when you're happy."

 

“Pettings and kisses,” Shiraishi slurs a bit against his skin, nuzzling down as sleep starts closing his eyes. “Don’t underestimate the kisses.”

 

"Yeah," Chitose sighs, shutting his own eyes and stuffing his face down into the top of Shiraishi's head. "Not gonna underestimate that." 

 

~~

 

Time differences are a pain. A bigger pain is the fact he's started making lists again, because for the first time in ages, Yukimura can think of a dozen things other than _just get good at tennis again_ that he'd like to do. 

 

Among them, he's very sure he needs to do something about Shiraishi. He's noticed the silence of no longer receiving his texts, felt more than a little odd about it, but there comes a point where he's ignored something for so long (stupidly) that knowing what to say is beyond even him, and…ah, Yukimura wonders how he managed to turn into such an _asshole_. 

 

Shoving that aside--there's still that time difference thing, but he isn't going to complain _at all_ because the end result is _England_ and even if the first five days are spent in Atobe's bed…

 

Eh. He says _even if_ , but it's not like he minds much at all. There's a tiny stab of guilt to be had because Sanada _doesn't_ need to ever learn about this, but he decides to not think about that at all, even when he makes a grab for his buzzing cellphone in the process of having his face shoved down into a pillow.

 

**From: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[How dO You Work Thailand machine]**

 

Yukimura blinks.

 

**From: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[this]**

 

Ah. Autocorrect. Yukimura tries not to smile like a stupid, giddy idiot and fails. Whoops.

 

“Mm, you liked that, didn’t you?” Atobe says, breathless and gleeful. “God, you got so tight, I—”

 

He stops speaking, though not moving. His lips leave Yukimura’s shoulder, and he rolls his hips in hard, balls slapping against his ass. Incredulously, he asks, “Are you _texting_?”

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[it's fine!! i'm just glad to hear from yjjjj-]**

 

**[*you. sorry. hand slipped.]**

 

Yukimura turns his head, blowing a sweaty strand out of his face, and blinks back at Atobe petulantly. "Yes. You can keep going, I'm good at multi-tasking." 

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[I understand The texture are difficult How is English]**

 

Atobe shoves in hard, though not cruelly. “You’re lucky I’m almost done,” he mutters, and bends to bite the other boy’s neck again.

 

Ahhhh, dammit, Sanada is _cute_. Yukimura is pretty sure he whimpers because of that and not because of Atobe's dick, though his squirm is something of a combination between the two. "I'm lucky because Sanada is _perfect_ ," he groans happily, shoving his face down into a pillow. "He got the kanji for my name right, I can see it in the return message!"

 

Atobe’s last shove is something less than kind, but he’s not even sure Yukimura will notice. It’s not the most satisfying orgasm he’s ever had, but it’s all he’s likely to get when the other boy is being like this. He makes a face when he pulls out, flicking the condom into the wastebasket. “How did you get him _texting_ you? I figured he’d be the kind of guy to break any technology he tried to use.”

 

Yukimura, entirely unfazed, gleefully rolls on the bed, curling up around his phone. "He said he'd learn just for me," he hums, and remembers that, ah, yeah, he should reply--

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[England is great, but--]**

 

_I miss you._

 

Nope, nope, can't do it. 

 

**[England is great, but--]**

 

_I'm dragging you along next time--_

 

_I'd rather be playing tennis with you--_

 

**[England is great. Keigo is harassing me, I'll text you later.]**

 

Yukimura presses send, and then drops his phone on his face and breathes heavily. "Kill me, it's kinder."

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[if you Return injured I will dual key and he will loose]**

 

**[this Machine makes me sound more ignorant than I Amtrak]**

 

“I’m starting to think it would be,” Atobe mutters, rolling Yukimura off the bed onto the floor.

 

Yukimura makes a pathetic squealing noise as he tumbles down into the mess of blankets and clothes. "He's so-- _ugh_ , I hate everything, I want to _die_ \--" At least those are maybe the things he's mumbling underneath is breath as he types furiously on his phone.

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[** **。。。かわいいだぞ、君]**

 

There. He's done it. He's signed his soul away. "He's going to challenge you to a duel if you injure me," he sighs out.

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[You have another Taliban mark to add to your Charity]**

**[I hope you understand anything I am Sainsbury’s Marketplace]**

**[I am going to throat this phone into the Oceanic Airways]**

 

“The only one injuring you is yourself. Why did you even come if you’re going to be like this?” He sounds grumpier than he is, and Atobe sighs. “You look like you’d rather be back in Japan with him, of all places."

 

Yukimura tries desperately not to start cracking up. It's extremely difficult, but he manages it with a long, ragged exhale, and slowly starts to climb his way back onto the bed. "I'm sooorry, I just didn't expect him to really _do it_ …ah, and he's so bad at it…" he sighs out, flopping his head down onto a pillow. "Keikei, please be nice, I worked hard for this. We're--ahh, I wasn't going to say anything yet, but we're _actually_ dating, so..." 

 

_“Dating?”_

 

Atobe’s voice cracks on the word, and he hastily lowers it. “I mean--dating? That’s….you didn’t tell me.”

 

Ah, that’s weird. Strange, that it doesn’t bother him to sleep with Seiichi while he’s with Tezuka, but if _Seiichi_ is dating someone, that’s entirely different. “Does he not mind this?”

 

Yukimura winces at that, and sets his phone onto the nightstand. "He…ah, he doesn't know. It's for the best. I mean, this is the last time we're allowed to do this kind of thing, just so you know; I didn't want to cancel the conditions of our bet, but this is _it_."

 

Atobe stares, sitting more bolt upright than he’d intended, and if he’d been holding something, he’d have dropped it. Damn, that would have been good for dramatic effect. “Seiichi! I never agreed to that! If you’d _told_ me, I wouldn’t have done this at all! J’accuse!”

 

Yukimura's lower lip juts in a pout, no matter how he tries to stop it. "You would have gotten all grouchy about it, don't lie. Besides, it's not like I'm _upset_ about the deal or anything, I just…" He sighs, picking at the bedspread. "It's better like this, anyway. Otherwise, Sanada and I definitely would have had sex before I came here, and I don't think he would've felt as good about it later, and I would've felt gross because of that bet."

 

“Whiny,” Atobe corrects vaguely, flopping out onto the bed. “I would have gotten whiny. Don’t lie, Sei-chan, when have I _ever_ known you to care about bets and deals so much? And I’m your friend, first of all. If it had been cowardice, that’s one thing, but this…” He shrugs. “I just don’t know how you can put up with Lord Frowns-A-Lot all day without wanting to die.”

 

"Well, I'm definitely not afraid of having your dick in me; I'm used to not feeling much of anything from the waist down, after all," Yukimura can't help but snark, rolling over closer with a grin. "He's _cute_. He invited me over, and I climbed him like a tree."

 

“No one in the _world_ thinks that man is cute,” Atobe insists. “And there’s no reason you should be afraid of me, I’m a gentle and considerate lover. Except when you _text while I’m fucking you_ , how rude.”

 

"Gentle and considerate--is that why Kunimitsu ends up limping every single morning after?" Yukimura teases. "And he's super cute. That's why I couldn't ignore his texts, I knew they'd be pure gold. You're being awful, let me talk about my boyfriend, I don't ever say anything mean about your Tezuka-creature."

 

Atobe flops over. “Then tell me what he does that’s so cute,” he grumbles. “All you’ve ever said is how horrible and rude and handsome he is, and now you’re climbing him like a tree and giggling like Kaede at his text messages? Something is rotten in the house of Denmark.”

 

Yukimura rolls over on top of him with a huff. "I'm not giggling like Kaede, gross. It's…ugh." He shoves his face down into Atobe's hair. "He's still kind of awful and rude and handsome," he mumbles, "and a lot of the things he does really annoy me. But he's…Sanada's the only person other than you that hasn't taken my shit, and at the same time, tried to make me _feel_ better again since I came back to Japan. I don't like the kind of person that I turned into, Keigo. Sanada…it's like he saw past that and tried to fix it, even when he really didn't have to." 

 

That tugs at something in Atobe, and he brings his hand up, rubbing soothingly down Yukimura’s back. “I guess that’s not so bad,” he mutters. “I just…” He tries to picture it. He tries, without much success, to imagine lovely, fun-loving, mischievous Seiichi walking hand-in-hand with the great tree trunk that is Sanada Genichirou.

 

He gives up, frustrated. “He just seems like no fun. And a _lot_ of repression.”

 

"…He's better at admitting he's gay than Kunimitsu _ever_ was, if I'm recalling that _incident_ correctly," Yukimura idly retorts, even as he snuggles himself up against Atobe's side. "I'm not saying he's not difficult. He's just…kind of soothing? Does that make sense? And he likes the way I play tennis, how many people actually tell me that anymore?" He rubs his face down into Atobe's shoulder. The more he says it out loud, the more it _does_ all sound ridiculous. What, exactly, is he going to do with someone like Sanada? Or maybe it's more like _what is Sanada going to do with him_. That makes him scrunch up into a tiny ball. "I'm stupid, aren't I, getting this invested. Maybe I should have kept Niou."

 

Atobe shrugs, giving cuddles where they’re obviously desired. “I don’t think it’s stupid,” he admits, because now that Yukimura’s _explained_ himself, it all sounds rather delightful. “But as you’ve pointed out several times--quite rudely, I might add--I’m a hopeless and desperate romantic.”

 

He tries to imagine it again, and is treated to an excellent mental image of a very flustered Sanada being dragged around to Yukimura’s idea of “fun.” “And it could be quite entertaining for everyone.”

 

"…You're pretty good," Yukimura decides after a moment, relaxing again with a slow exhale. "I mean, a good boyfriend. So being a hopeless romantic can't be too awful, if Kunimitsu has stayed around and keeps putting up with you."

 

“He does,” Atobe assures him. “He told me just this morning that he’ll continue to put up with me, at least for one more day. That’s how he says ‘good morning,’ isn’t he droll?”

 

"Ah. Very. Knit him another scarf as a reward." 

 

“Those scarves aren’t a _reward_ , they’re a simple perk of being with me.”

 

"Sanada's perks seem to include kendo lessons and the fact he can pick me up and shove me into walls. I think I win, personally."

 

“But I don’t _want_ kendo lessons,” Atobe points out, “and I certainly don’t want to be shoved into a wall. This, I believe, is why there are more than two personalities in the world. I wouldn’t say you two are made for each other, but I’m sure the next several months will be interesting. And at least _now_ you’ll be able to get onto the team for sure, don’t you think?”

 

"Mmmn, I still win," Yukimura decides on a sigh, and idly leans up to nudge his nose against Atobe's cheek. "Dating Sanada doesn't really guarantee a spot, but he seems to think I'm a shoo-in for one of the singles positions. Now I'm just not even sure I want it. I'm…ahh, I just don't think I'm cut out for team things. Or maybe I'm just not good at people anymore. Opinions?"

 

Ah, that’s not the easiest question to answer. Atobe tries to choose his words carefully. “I think,” he says, hoping he’s not too offensive, “you’re not very good at Japanese people right now. Also, and _please_ don’t get mad at me since you asked, but everyone’s been too nice to you since you’ve gotten sick, and you’ve started walking all over everyone. Other people _do_ have feelings, Seiichi.”

 

"I _did_ ask," Yukimura tiredly agrees, and he sighs, rolling a bit to the side. At least this is why he asks _Atobe_ these things. He'd rather hear it from him than someone he disliked and didn't trust. "I kind of went off the deep end, didn't I. I'm…I've messed a lot of things up," he says after another, annoyed pause. "I kind of wish you had punched me, or something. I guess I figured everything was already messed up, so it didn't matter, but…"

 

“You’re my best friend,” Atobe says softly, “and you almost died. I’m as guilty of walking on eggshells around you as anyone, I suppose. Hey, cheer up. I still like you, and apparently Sanada doesn’t mind you so much. That’s good, isn’t it? And you’re still alive to make apologies to anyone else.”

 

Like Shiraishi, and the whole of Rikkai, and--who else has he completely been dreadful to? Yukimura sighs again, long and hard, and gives Atobe a squeeze, rather like he's a stress ball or a stuffed animal. "More honest opinions, then. They probably all think I'm a flake because I'm skipping Nationals to come here, so do I even _deserve_ to take that singles spot? Sanada didn't seem to think it was a big issue, but…ugh, I don't _get_ Japanese people. Help me, you've been dating one for a millennia now." 

 

Atobe pretends to think for a moment, then nods graciously. “Since you asked _so_ politely,” he says with a broad grin, “I’ll give you the benefit of my extensive knowledge. Here’s the biggest secret to dating a Japanese person, and the biggest secret about them in general: you can get away with just about ANYTHING if you apologize enough. It’s hard-wired into them, like a default reset switch. Quite useful. Unless you’re a proud bastard, of course, but you wouldn’t be one of _them_ , would you, Sei-chan?”

 

Yukimura barely stifles a groan. "Me? A proud egomaniac with a control complex? No way," he answers, a hint of misery in his voice. Where's his award for at least recognizing his enormous, horrible flaws?

 

There’s a touch of pity in Atobe’s expression--ah, maybe more than a touch, when he looks so _pitiful_. “Do you want to practice apologizing on me?” he offers. “I don’t mind roleplaying, as you well know. Maybe if you try it out in the comfort of my home first, you won’t feel so horrified and bratty when it comes to doing it for real. Want to make a list of everyone you’ve offended?”

 

"…Let's just start with a list." It even _sounds_ pathetic thinking about it, and something knots up in his chest anew. "I don't think anything is going to make me feel less…horrified and bratty. I wish you would've yelled at me sooner." Not that it would have done any good, Yukimura knows that. He sighs, laying his head down onto his arms. "It just feels like I've finally come out from underneath water for the first time in a year. I'm sorry for being so…difficult. Is that the word I should use for it?" His people skills are gone now, that much he knows. How was he ever popular and well-liked?

 

“You,” Atobe says, choosing his words carefully, “are going through much the same thing I did, when I first came to Japan, except your father won’t buy you a school. We were both used to being very important and interesting in middle school, weren’t we?”

 

"But you're still thought of as very important and interesting in high school. I didn't go in expecting anything except to just play tennis, and that just…didn't happen." Yukimura feels very much like rolling off the bed and never coming back up. " _You're_ that overdramatic rich kid that everyone still likes for one reason or another. _I'm_ Yankee-kun--and apparently thought to go on lots of adventures and generally be a super cool delinquent foreigner. I didn't know about any of this, though; Sanada had to tell me. Do--" Yukimura pauses, suddenly a little weirded out. "Do people write you _poetry?_ Apparently there's a guy on the tennis team that writes poetry about me."

 

“They certainly _should_ write me poetry,” Atobe allows, “but tragically, I don’t know of any that actually do. There’s certainly someone on the tennis team who...hmmm….” He grimaces slightly. “I wouldn’t call those notes _poetry_ , I don’t think poetry is supposed to be that disturbing.”

 

"I haven't read the supposed poetry that's written for me, but I hope it isn't disturbing…" Yukimura trails off, giving him a sideways look. "Do you need me to go and act like a yankee-kun at _your_ school? I'll do it, you're awful at telling people 'no' and that's why you get creepy things."

 

“Don’t do that, he’s a _nice_ person--well, at least, he’s a good teammate,” Atobe says, a bit lamely. “I don’t think he’ll try anything again, though. Last time made it pretty clear.”

 

"…Apparently I'm not the only one that's been close-mouthed about things. Spill. My ex knows how to make bombs." 

 

Atobe raises an eyebrow. “ _That’s_ a story I think would be better suited for sharing, don’t you think?” Seeing Yukimura’s rather _unconvinced_ face, he sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His voice drops, less of an arrogant swagger, more of the teenage boy he so rarely sounds. “It’s just ever so _Japanese_. He thought that when I said no I didn’t mean it, and got rather...let’s just say _handsy_. Don’t worry, though. You remember Shishido? With the good hair?”

 

"Uh huh." And here he really had been hoping it wasn't that kind of creepy. Even if it was just _handsy_ , that still freaks him out a little on Atobe's behalf, and also makes him want to punch the asshole. "Did _he_ punch whoever it was?" 

 

Atobe blinks. “How did you know? Pulled him off and everything. Don’t _scowl_ at me, it was while you were in the hospital and Father made me move back early.”

 

"I'll scowl at you if I want," Yukimura huffs. "I've shared every awful experience I've ever had with you, at least return the favor and think about what pigs most men are with me." And in the next moment, with his expression immediately softening: "I'm glad you're okay, though. Seriously, that's awful. I'd have ended up in jail for murder if it had been me."

 

Atobe looks away, a bit embarrassed for all the tough words. He doesn’t _like_ being vulnerable--it had been easier to be strong for Yukimura, because he’d felt needed, necessary. He doesn’t like being the one who _needs_. “It wasn’t so bad,” he mumbles, and hides his face in the pillow, knowing it’s uncharacteristic of himself and annoyed about it. “It was after the showers--it was just surprising because I thought I was alone, and he…”

 

He _wasn’t_ talking about it, and isn’t entirely sure he’s glad he’s started. It had been a lot more frightening than he had wanted it to be; it had taken hours for his heart rate to return to normal, and it had just been a stupid, stupid misunderstanding. “I don’t think most men are like that, you know. Sometimes it’s a mistake, he didn’t know I was scared or anything.” And he _hates_ admitting he was scared. This hasn’t been a good day for him, emotionally.

 

"Did he apologize?" If it was a mistake, then the asshat _better have_. It sets Yukimura's teeth on edge a bit to think about Atobe having to deal with _anything_ like this and not telling him a word of it, and ah, he feels again like the worst friend. He's pretty sure he _used_ to be the nice one and the sympathetic one, and he's not sure where that went. "…if _I_ had been there," he murmurs, flopping over and nuzzling his face into Atobe's hair, "I would have knocked him out, too, for what it's worth. I still sort of want to, if he didn't apologize."

 

Atobe takes the offered comfort, because he doesn’t have to accept it verbally, which would be _embarrassing_. He buries his face in Yukimura’s neck, and says with a hint of mirth, “He did. Shishido sort of...held him down by the hair and forced him to the ground until he did. Honestly, I didn’t even think Shishido _liked_ me that much, but he was quite dashing. Perhaps there was some personal anger occurring as well? I can’t fathom why he’d have been so upset otherwise, it wasn’t as if O--as if it happened to him.” Damn, he’s getting far to close to talking about what had actually happened, and it’s to the point where he’s not sure which is worse, Yukimura’s imagination or the actual events.

 

That doesn't sound like the best apology in the world, and Yukimura is pretty sure he wouldn't have accepted it without the bastard kissing his damned feet. Scowling, he drags Atobe over closer, rubbing a hand through his hair rather like he would pet a cat. "Did you tell Kunimitsu about this?" he carefully presses. He can only imagine that Tezuka would be about a dozen times more livid than he, and that's saying something. 

 

“God, _no_!” Atobe says, slightly alarmed. “He’d probably call his grandfather and have him arrested. And you’re not going to say anything to him, either. He’d be _furious_ \--it would ruin the whole team. Ah, Seiichi, you’re smothering just a little.”

 

"Keigo," Yukimura _patiently_ says, loosening his hold just enough to push Atobe back and look at him, "because we're having a sharing-is-caring time, I'm going to tell you something that's very important. That important thing is the fact you're very good at ignoring your own personal happiness for the sake of others and that is _bad_. Take some of my selfishness for the time being and apply it because if this guy is still bothering you, getting rid of him is a lot more important than a tennis team and if _I'm_ saying that, come _on_." 

 

“He’s not!” Atobe’s smile falters. “Not _much_ , I mean, he hasn’t tried to touch me again or anything. He _is_ my friend, I think he was genuinely startled that I wasn’t interested in him. He’s just...still interested. Can’t help it, can he? I’m surprised more people aren’t in love with my glorious self, of course.” It never sounds quite as genuine when he says things like that to Seiichi.

 

Yukimura looks skeptical, and for good reason, he thinks. "Tell him you've got a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. A _relationship_. If he keeps at it then, then he's an asshole and you are not allowed to make excuses for him. You're actually not really allowed to right _now_."

 

“Nothing even _happened_ , not _really_ ,” Atobe protests, slightly unnerved that Yukimura thinks of Oshitari as some kind of….well. He _isn’t_. “And you know how I am with keeping secrets, if I let out a little bit of it I won’t be able to stop. That’s why Kunimitsu won’t let me tell anyone.”

 

Yeah, okay, he's kind of done. "Keigo, for fuck's sake. I'm going to tell Kunimitsu if you don't do something about this guy."

 

Atobe rolls his eyes. “Nothing needs to be _done_ , it’s no big _deal_ , he grabbed me from behind and tried to go in and I told him not to and Shishido hit him, that’s _it_ , it was two years ago for fuck’s sake!” He only gets vulgar like this with Yukimura, who’s known him before the airs and graces, before the current creature who is Atobe Keigo had emerged like a butterfly.

 

" _Two years ago_ and you're still nervous about talking about it, so it's a big deal." Yukimura narrows his eyes at him. "Please stop making excuses for a guy that tried to _have sex with you without you saying it was okay_ and you know, there's a word for that in both English and Japanese that's exactly the same. If you aren't going to do anything about him, at least tell me if he ever does anything _disgusting_ again."

 

“If I do, will you drop it?” Atobe’s cheeks are bright red now, from shame more than anger. He’d felt so damn _vulnerable_ , at someone else’s whim, and no matter how he’d refused, it hadn’t seemed to matter. 

 

But it was only a moment, and Oshitari _had_ seemed genuinely surprised that he’d been serious. “He thought I was just being tsun,” he mutters, not meeting Yukimura’s eyes. “I told you, he hasn’t tried anything in two years. It’s fine.”

 

Yukimura exhales a long, heavy sigh, and grabs Atobe again to smoosh his face down into his neck. "…I hate Japan a lot for thinking that's a _thing_ ," he mutters into Atobe's hair. "I'm sorry for pushing you about it, but I'm _serious_ about how you let people walk all over you." It's for that reason that he's glad Atobe is with someone like Tezuka, who asks for nothing to very little. Anyone else would take advantage of Atobe a million times over. 

 

“That,” Atobe says firmly, “is why you’re my best friend and Kunimitsu is my boyfriend.” It shouldn’t be that hard to understand. He isn’t _stupid_. “Ah, Sei-chan, it’s really not that big a deal, he was as surprised as I was. And he’s the one that had to get a fake tooth.”

 

"He deserves it," Yukimura sniffs. "I'm definitely sure I'm the only one allowed to harass you."

 

Atobe pulls back, resting his forehead against Yukimura’s. “I promise,” he says solemnly, “that if you ever try to have sex with me without my permission, I’ll knock your tooth out as well. Is that what you want to hear? Sort of?”

 

"Close enough," Yukimura cheerfully retorts. "But if you do that, you're paying to have it fixed. Hey, better topic, did you know how much our respective boyfriends hate one another? Or at least mine hates yours a _lot_."

 

“Does he really? Kunimitsu’s never mentioned Sanada at all. Even when I mention him, he just sniffs or something.”

 

"I received a full dissertation on why Tezuka Kunimitsu brings out the worst of his rage. Hilariously, it stems briefly from tennis, more from old family feuds. You just _had_ to date the police commissioner's grandson, didn't you."

 

“Mm,” Atobe says fondly, “I do believe he gave me no choice. He’s quite suitable, you know. Did you have to date the...ah, but I have no idea who Sanada’s family is. I’m guessing they’re quite Japanese.”

 

"Oh, very. He invited me for dinner and I had to sit in seiza the _entire time_ , but I think his parents liked me. I think his father is part of parliament or something? Send help."

 

“Sei-chan...you’re not allowed to think he’s cooler than me,” Atobe warns. “You can adore him and sleep with him and call him your little cabbage, but I have to be cooler. That’s the best friend rule.”

 

"I am definitely calling him my little cabbage and I am not translating that for him so he has to struggle with dictionaries and end up more confused." God, he can't _wait_ actually. "You're definitely cooler, though. There's no contest. You kept thinking I was cool even when I was in a wheelchair, so I owe you at least a few more years."

 

“You certainly do.” That’s satisfying, at least. “By the way, I won’t say anything about the bet. Or about this week. I wouldn’t have held you to it, if I’d known. You’re a bit of an asshole, Seiichi.”

 

"I'm basically the worst," Yukimura agrees on a sigh. "Ahh, I'm really glad I didn't win, honestly. I still feel a little weird and gross about it. Should I tell him, you think? Or is that a death sentence?"

 

“For me,” Atobe says, not at all eager for _that_ to come to pass. “It’s not you he’d kill, you know. I still have a marvelous and over-budgeted life to live.”

 

"I wasn't going to name _you_ as the instigator," Yukimura defensively retorts. "Though I guess it would probably come back to you…oh, I definitely don't want that. So much for trying to turn over an honest new leaf."

 

“Just build a happy new relationship based on trickery and deceit,” Atobe suggests. “And stop getting on my case about every last hickey I don’t tell Kunimitsu about. It’s _hard_ , when you care, isn’t it?”

 

A huff follows that. "His _dick_ is hard, at least. And I definitely don't get on your case about every hickey, I just bite over them for you. Are you two going to spend the whole time fucking like last time, once he gets here? Can we at least go to Wimbledon a _little?_ "

 

“Of course we’ll go to Wimbledon. Kunimitsu has informed me that after another vacation like the last time, I will be the one limping due to violence. Is that buzzing sound your phone?”

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[I took the phone to the store The man said it was some problem called** **オートコレックト** **and turned it off Please do not throw the phone into the ocean I will text better and learn to find the period]**

 

Yukimura dives to the nightstand and is quite pleased with himself for not falling off the bed in the process. He lets out an odd, strangled noise and slowly slides to the floor. "I've made a good life choice."

 

“What the hell did he do this time?” Atobe asks, not as tired of it as he sounds. It’s _nice_ to see Yukimura this happy, even if it’s a stiff, enormous samurai that makes that the case.

 

" _Nothing_ , he's just so incompetent with anything technology that it's stupid and adorable and--" Yukimura buries his face into his hands. "Please explain how this happened to me."

 

Atobe has to just _laugh_. “You have it ever so bad,” he says, sort of delighted by the idea of it. “I’m expecting you to be thoroughly domesticated. Does he have a little leash for you and everything? Never mind, you’d put one on him.”

 

"I was about to _say_ , Keigo. Have at least a little bit of class," Yukimura huffs, even as he turns around to set his chin upon the edge of the bed and stare up at him. He reaches out, grabbing Atobe's arm. " _I want him to discover Pixiv_." 

 

Atobe tilts his head so far that his ear nearly touches his shoulder. “Why don’t you just say you want to pervert him? Have you drawn him nude yet?”

 

Yukimura just keeps staring at him. "Three sketchbooks full. Ah, but," he sighs, slumping forward, "I still haven't had a chance to have him _really_ as a model. Maybe when I go back."

 

“Put it on pixiv,” Atobe suggests, “and tell him he’s become a sensation. Then when he goes to the link you give him, he’ll have no choice. Five minutes, and he’ll be balls deep in anime porn.”

 

"Nnnn…maybe. If anything I posts gets a lot of bookmarks or something, I'll show him. Mostly I want to call him my little cabbage and watch him be really confused," Yukimura wistfully says, slowly rubbing his cheek against the side of the bed. "I also want to know how big his dick is. One can only guess so much without outright seeing it."

 

“Ask him to text you a picture of it,” Atobe suggests gleefully, stretching out and tweaking Yukimura’s hair. “Send him one of yours. Make him miss you while you’re away!”

 

Yukimura aims a bite at his hand. "You sound like a horrible dating tips magazine! That's _really_ inelegant, I bet you'd never do that to Kunimitsu." 

 

“Wrong, I’d do it to him right now. If I had proper lighting,” he amends. “I did it once, want to see? Makeup and setting took forever, though, I’m never going back to that photographer.”

 

Yukimura pauses, then shrugs, climbing back into bed. "Sure, show me. How'd that go over, actually? Sanada's kind of a prude at times, but he gets hard in like, half a second, assuming I breathe on him. Kunimitsu's a little…calmer." 

 

“As calm as a nervous rabbit,” Atobe says under his breath, and pulls out the cell phone he uses on days when he takes a lot of pictures. “The full album is available for download, but these are the more ‘casual’ set that I wanted on my phone so I could text him.” He pulls up the appropriately time-stamped photos, and tosses over the phone. “Look through _that_ for inspiration. Besides, he can’t be that prudish, he’s dating _you_.”

 

"No, he's still a total prude in the best of ways, trust me," Yukimura sighs out, flopping back with the phone in question. "These _do_ look nice, though. I still don't think he'd appreciate it; he's surprisingly touchy-feely, pics probably do very little for him. Ah, well. I'll just have to wait and find out later. It _felt_ big." 

 

“In other news, I have no idea why you’re here,” Atobe admits. “If I knew Kunimitsu was playing in a tournament while I was on vacation, Wimbledon could bloody well wait. Why don’t you text him back, by the way? Is it like my grandfather? He always accidentally sends me racist messages. Well, he says they’re accidental.”

 

"…Because I missed England and I didn't _expect_ to want to…be around him that much." It sort of trails off into a mumble, and Yukimura slouches down. "If I start texting him, I'm not going to stop, and I know I only have a few days to spend only with you, so…"

 

“Laaaaaaame, you’re as bad as the homos on my team,” Atobe groans, flicking Yukimura in the head. “We should probably work on your apology list before you start farting butterflies.”

 

"You're gross." Yukimura throws the phone back to him and huddles up against a pillow. "You were this bad with Kunimitsu at first, don't deny it, you blob."

 

“I wrote poetry and knitted scarves,” Atobe admits, “but I was never incapable of carrying on a conversation with you. And I _never_ tried to text him when your _penis was inside me._ ”

 

"That's because you're always too busy crying and sobbing when I'm fucking you."

 

“I’ve decided vacation is at an end. You can swim back to Japan, I retract my aircraft.”

 

"No, I'm part of you. You and I are one unit, except in tennis, in which we are entirely separate and that is for the best."

 

“I refuse to be part of your unit when you’re writhing under a murderous samurai. Or any time Kunimitsu’s glasses are off. Those are my conditions.”

 

"Okay, that's very fair. We are not a unit under those conditions either. I also don't think double dates will ever work, fair warning."

 

Atobe considers that for a moment, then nods. “Deal. Though I reserve the right to reconsider if I think it’s going to be funny.”

 

"Then I might require more manpower to haul Sanada out of the house." His eyes glaze a little. "We could play doubles matches against each another."

 

“We’d win,” Atobe says immediately. “Kunimitsu and I are actually quite good at doubles. We’ve been practicing.”

 

Yukimura sniffs. "The only thing you two have in common is being All-Rounders. Sanada and I were going to play together at the Nationals."

 

“Ah, yes, the famous doubles team. What _is_ your score for official doubles matches, Seiichi?”

 

"What's _yours_ , Keigo?" Yukimura snipes back. "We're going to do this now. Talk to your creature, set a date."

 

“Fine. Talk to your tree trunk. My glorious self will be more than victorious, we will destroy the two of you most thoroughly.” Atobe grabs his phone, texting furiously.

 

"Do you know Rikkai's motto? Always glorious, always victorious," Yukimura sneers back, snatching up his own phone to do the same. 

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[when I get back to Japan, we are having a doubles match against Keigo and Kunimitsu and we are going to win without any mistakes]**

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[we will crush them on the fields we will crush them in their houses we will crush them into the dust from which they emerged we will be always glorious always]**

 

**[victorious also please teach me where the period key is when you come back from england and also how to send longer messages]**

 

“Oh? At Hyoutei we just say that Atobe is going to win. We’re rarely wrong.”

 

"You're just wrong because I'm going to marry Sanada and have beautiful tennis children with him. _Your_ children will have terrible vision and long spider legs."

 

“Ridiculous! My children will be as flawless as their father, with perfect cheekbones. _Your_ children will grow up all wavy-headed and mountainous.”

 

"Yours _will_ have perfect cheekbones, I'll give you that," Yukimura relents. 

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[it's really attractive when you talk about crushing our enemies]**

 

Aaand _send_. Whoops. "Mine is much more of a wartime general, though, and that's why we'll win. The two of you…mmm, I don't know what you are."

 

“King and advisor,” Atobe says immediately, with the easy grace of someone who’s spent way too much time thinking about it. “Obviously. You go conquer Japan, we’ll stay here and rule Europe together.”

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[is tezuka there is he talking shit I can be on a plane in half an hour]**

 

Yukimura barely stifles a giggle. "But I don't _want_ Japan. Their tennis circuit is awful," he complains as he types.

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[he's not here yet, but he's never said a word about you. i'd say get on the plane anyway but i honestly think you'd hate england]**

 

And hate spending any extended amount of time around Atobe and Tezuka, so it's really best if that never happens. What a shame.

 

“So change it.” Atobe shrugs, grabbing a tennis ball and tossing it towards the ceiling idly. “You do a lot of complaining without much action, for someone that knows people who like setting systems on their ears. What do you need, funding?”

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[dont trust him and also when are you coming home I saw your sister today Did you tell her because she knows I think]**

 

"Dammit, Kaede," Yukimura distractedly mutters. If that brat scares Sanada off, he'll personally grind her face into a tennis net. He chews on his lower lip a bit, thinking, and tries not to be annoyed about the idea that he's been defeatist even about _tennis_ since he's moved to Japan. "I _need_ a winning streak again, and parents that don't think I'm going to break if I travel on a train," he finally says, sighing. "I'll get there, eventually. Do you think Kunimitsu will practice with me? Sometime he's odd about his regimens." 

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[Couple of weeks. please don't mind kaede, she just likes you]**

 

“He’ll practice with you,” Atobe says confidently. “He’s been dying to, actually. I _may_ have told him quite a bit about your old playing style and skill level, ah.”

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[Dont mind its kind of cute I was Wondering if she might get along with my nephew I dont know why wondering is capital how do I go back]**

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[i'm not going to tell you anything because it's cute to watch you struggle. also i think kaede would eat your nephew alive, probably a bad decision]**

 

"You're a good friend, Keigo." Nigh impossible not to nuzzle his face into Atobe's shoulder when impending tennis matches exist. "Setting me up on tennis dates, what a perfect thing." 

 

“You like tennis more than you like people, it’s the only way I can get you to meet anyone,” Atobe explains. “Plus, I think playing him will make you better, and playing you will make him better. It’s very exciting, really.”

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[you are wrong sasuke is pure evil he is.not vulnerable Wait where did that period come from where is it WHere im going back to the Store]**

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[please don't hurt yourself]**

 

"He's going back to the store," Yukimura solemnly says, setting his phone down. "Also, tennis better than like, almost every people. If you were a racket, I would put you in my bag and adorn you tenderly with grip tape."

 

“How delightful. In return I suppose I’ll trim you like a Christmas tree and throw fried chicken at you all season. What on earth store is he going to?”

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[I am bringing my racket Last time I went to the store it took several minutes so this time I will be prepared if there is a long wait Also would you like me to]**

 

**[do your summer homework I have a Suspicion that you are not doing it yourself]**

 

So much for ignoring his phone. "The electronics store, I guess. Also, he wants to do my homework for me. Do I feel guilty about this or extremely thrilled? Doesn't Kunimitsu do yours?" And so, Yukimura is leaning towards the latter. He sets a hand on Atobe's arm. "I am coming to the conclusion that I should have dated at least three people prior to this to be prepared for cute boyfriend things."

 

“When it comes to finding someone who makes you blush like that,” Atobe says with long practice, “there’s no preparing for it. Kunimitsu does for me, as well. But he gets perfect grades. Are you sure you want Sanada in charge of something like that?”

 

"Sanada gets perfect grades. I think that's another reason why he finds Kunimitsu so annoying, if I remember correctly…" Yukimura sighs, long and hard, and tries not to think about how he's apparently been blushing. Damn it.

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[if you don't mind? i was going to have kunimitsu help but i'm sure you can do it a dozen times better than him]**

 

There. Now Sanada can have a sense of fulfillment. 

 

“Well, I should have expected nothing less from your perfect little samurai.” Is he miffed? Atobe is slightly startled to find that he is. Oh, dear, what an ugly emotion, being defensive over Kunimitsu’s grades. How common. 

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[tell him to spend his time preparing to be crushed at doubles instead]**

 

Yukimura gives him a _look_. "Keigo, is this going to be a thing? You fighting with my boyfriend about how perfect yours is? Because it's not very cute at all." 

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[seriously stop talking about crushing people because it's going to make me horny]**

 

“It’s not going to be a thing,” Atobe assures him. “I’m quite horrified at myself, honestly. Let my glorious graciousness make it up to you. Swan boat ride? I’d suggest gondola, but I think Father gave the gondolier the day off.”

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[you saying that just made me]**

 

**[sorry I hit send by mistake when I walked into a pothole]**

 

Yukimura lets out a high-pitched, strangled sound and pulls a pillow over his own face. "Anything to get me out of here," is his muffled response. "And away from this phone. What do I do, Keigo? He's just so…" 

 

“What did he do?” Atobe grabs for the phone, but can’t quite manage to wrest it away from Yukimura’s desperately clinging fingers. “Sei-chan, what did he do? Is it a picture of his manhood?”

 

"I told him that he turned me on and _he walked into a pothole_. Please help me, Keikei." 

 

“He walked into a pothole,” Atobe deadpans, “then _texted_ you about it. And you’re _squealing_. Good lord, there’s no help for you, I’m not even this bad with Kunimitsu.”

 

"Shut up! It was really cute, okay? He definitely got turned on and _he walked into a pothole,_ isn't that cute?" Yukimura considers smothering himself with the pillow, but removes it just so he can send another text. "I hate myself."

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[i have to be here another three weeks without you so try not to torture me too much]**

 

“Please,” Atobe begs, at the end of his rope and enjoying himself way too much, “just fuck him already and get it out of your system, this is getting absurd. I _hope_ your emotions will calm down, but I’m starting to doubt everything I ever believed about you, Sei-chan.”

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[Look. I understand now. Also your mother called and wants me to wear something. Do you think it is a dress.]**

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[it's definitely not a dress but don't trust her]**

 

"I really _want_ to. Ugh, do you think I like being like this? I swear I'll calm down, I just…" Yukimura exhales a long breath. "Let's go play tennis or go out to eat or _something_. The longer I'm indoors, the bigger chance I'm going to keep squealing."

 

“Give me your phone. We’re going to play tennis and then eat, and you’re not going to embarrass either of us by being like this in public.”

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[She says I have to listen because she will be my mother now. I hope you understand I am making a Sacrifice.]**

 

A moment later, 

 

**[You are worth it. Even if it is a dress.]**

 

"Just--one second," Yukimura says, trying not to whimper, and he hurriedly sends a pair of texts:

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[i am being forced to leave but your sacrifice will not be forgotten and you are making me make a number of embarrassing noises because you're very perfect]**

 

**To: MOTHER**

**[MOM LEAVE HIM ALONE]**

 

There are worse ways to spend his vacation, all in all.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Basically, the top of his _need to apologize to_ list is a whole lot of Shiraishi. 

 

Yukimura has realized that for awhile. It makes him somewhat sick to think about, because he _knows_ he has hardly done his childhood friend any favors. The thing is that there comes a point where answering a text message doesn't seem like it's good enough, especially if it's dismissive, or any sort of a rejection, and then there comes that _loop_ where you don't know what to say and--

 

It's a load of excuses, but at least he realizes that. Right?

 

Atobe tells him it's best to _force_ himself to get it done, and that's why he ends up flying into Osaka rather than Tokyo when he finally returns home and leaves Atobe and Tezuka behind (something of a relief, that, because after awhile, they are a _dozen_ times worse than he ever could be with his damned phone). As always, Osaka is swelteringly hot, and Yukimura is glad he took the time to chop all of his hair off again in England (where his mother wasn't around to whine and complain and bribe him to stop). 

 

Attempting to sneak his way around Shitenhouji is easier said than done, but at least minus a Rikkai jersey, he isn't _too_ recognizable. He hopes. Maybe. At least he still remembers the way to Shiraishi's dorm, and he can only hope that the other boy is still around when he knocks, sort of teetering there anxiously and hoping this diversion wasn't a Very Bad Decision. He just wants to make this right and go _home_ \--which feels odd to think about, because Japan hasn't felt like home at _all_ until now.

 

Shiraishi wakes at the knock, and tries not to feel too good about life when he does. He stretches slowly, enjoying a few unaccustomed aches and pains, and how good it feels to stretch them out.

 

He’s late, and can only imagine that Senri had bribed Kenya to leave quietly this morning, instead of his usual noisy way of doing just about everything. _Probably forgot his key_ , he thinks, rolling out of his futon and making his way to the door in socked feet and a pair of sleeping shorts. “Did you leave it on the—”

 

He stops short at that familiar set of cheekbones, that familiar set of piercing eyes. Ah. He may not have been _quite_ ready for Yukimura Seiichi this early in the morning. “Oh. Uh, hi, please come in.”

 

Being minus jet lag might have made this easier, but at the same time, maybe it makes him a little bit more subdued. God, Yukimura doesn't even know anymore what's _better_. He sucks in a steadying breath before he just sets his bag down outside of the door, and bows probably the straightest bow he's ever managed in his entire life. "You don't have to invite me in, I…ah. I'm really sorry to show up like this, but--" Yukimura swallows, glad that he at least is looking at the ground right now. "I wanted to give you a long overdue apology."

 

If this had happened last week, Shiraishi would probably be pretty distressed right now. As it is, he can’t help but look at Yukimura and remember the laughing kid he’d known, the playful boy who’d always been ready with a new plan, a better idea. It had been frightening, exciting when he’d seen Yukimura all grown up (mostly) and pressing him down into a stranger’s bed, but everything that had come after…

 

“Please, come in,” he says again, little eels of embarrassment wriggling in his belly. God, he’d been so _stupid_ , so whiny and needy. Does Yukimura not think his room is good enough to enter? “I cleaned it, there’s a chair, you can put your shoes right there…”

 

 _Please don't turn this into a long thing, I don't have any idea what else to say,_ Yukimura can't help but desperately think, but he straightens with a breath that he hopes isn't too shaky. He toes off his shoes when he steps inside, tries to think of half a dozen other ways to phrase that apology and make it seem genuine if Shiraishi doesn't believe him, but… "I'm sorry--I know it's early, I just got in from a flight." 

 

“It’s okay!” Shiraishi starts feeling a little self-conscious now--it just seems _weird_ when Yukimura acts like this. “Really, you don’t have to apologize, it doesn’t seem like you at all. Ah, I didn’t mean anything rude by that, I just...can I get you a drink? Food? The chair is right there, it’s Kenya’s, but he’s not in, I usually just sit on the futon…” He’s babbling, he knows, but what on earth is he supposed to say when Yukimura had flown to Osaka to see him?

 

"Kura." Yukimura knows it's probably rude not to sit, but there's still that niggling fear that if he _does_ , he'll be here for hours and have to talk about all of his _feelings_ regarding this and he's pretty sure he's messed up so much that he'll just end up in an apologizing loop. "Kura, it's really fine," he sighs, setting his bag down on the chair instead. "I don't want to inconvenience you for very long--um, I can't, actually, I have to get on the Shinkansen in like an hour, but…I did really want to see you. That's why I flew in here, instead of into Tokyo. I don't think a text message would've been the best apology for how…rude I was before. You didn't deserve any of that." He glances up, nervous in spite of himself. "You've always been a good friend, and I really took advantage of that. We should have never…I should have never, ah, done that, at Keigo's party. I think it really gave you the wrong idea."

 

Shiraishi is quiet for a moment. His hands hang at his sides, and after a moment, he leans back against the wall, sighing. “I did get the wrong idea,” he admits, “but you aren’t all to blame for that. You did tell me, I just didn’t listen. Ah, I don’t think I wanted to hear it. I…” He shrugs, a little helpless. “I’d never planned on it being like that--with a friend, and just for fun, you know? I’d always thought it had to be something...more.” And now he sounds like a stupid romantic. Well, maybe he is.

 

Yukimura tries not to wince, and wonders how he manages to attract _these kinds of guys_ nowadays. Ah, no; that's the wrong way to look at it. More important is the fact that he's been kind of…obnoxiously dismissive of this mindset, and hearing Shiraishi say it makes him wonder how uncomfortable he's made Sanada a dozen times over in the past, too. Damn it all. "I was still really rude about it, and I'm sorry. I shouldn't have thrown the fact that I had a boyfriend in your face, either; I just…I didn't know what to say anymore to make you understand that it wasn't going to happen." He sighs. "To be clear: you're a _great_ friend. I just think we would've been an awful couple. We're both…the word Keigo uses is 'high strung' and I think it's pretty accurate."

 

“It’s for the best.” Now that he knows how much happier he’s been with--well, in another way, at least, because it’s not as if he’s in a _relationship_ with Chitose even though he’s definitely _with_ him, and ah, it’s impossible to say things like that about Chitose when he sort of defies them with his existence. “Really. I just…” He shrugs, looking around the room and settling his eyes on Kuubriel, rather than meet Yukimura’s eyes. “I just never knew what I did wrong, so I felt terrible. I thought you hated me. I don’t anymore,” he says hurriedly, “but I didn’t get it.”

 

"You didn't do _anything_ wrong," Yukimura hurriedly makes to clarify in turn, waving a hand to dismiss the mere thought of it. "It was all me. Seriously, I was a huge jerk about it, I--ugh, I _really_ didn't mean to hurt your feelings," he plaintively says and he sighs, glancing away. "I was actually worried I'd come here and _you'd_ hate me--and you'd have every right to, honestly. I haven't been a good person for the past few months." 

 

“You were just coming back to Japan. It’s understandable. I should have been more understanding,” Shiraishi insists. “It’s--I mean, no one’s really at fault, right? I’m…” He scratches his arm, rubbing them against what he’s pretty sure is sudden cold despite the obvious sheen of sweat on Yukimura’s face. “It’s like Senri says, we’re all tennis balls on the court of life, hit by the rackets of fate.”

 

Yukimura's brow furrows at that. "…Right," he settles upon, because agreeing to something like that is probably easier than questioning it right now. "Sure. You know, can we just…kind of put all of this aside? I just don't want it looming over our heads anymore, and I really am sorry."

 

Shiraishi’s smile is relieved. “I’d like to move on,” he agrees, “though I don’t...if you don’t mind, I don’t want to forget it. That was important to me. Maybe for the wrong reasons, but it was still a pretty important thing in my life.”

 

"…So long as you aren't going to throw it in my face every time I'm a jerk in the near future," Yukimura hedges with a nervous laugh, only half-joking. "I promise I won't get drunk and do anything like that again around you, though."

 

“I wouldn’t do that!” Shiraishi hopes he sounds earnest instead of defensive. “I didn’t--it’s not like I _minded_ the sex.” He finishes that last bit quietly, then moves to shut the door, usually left open to facilitate airflow during the summer. “I don’t think we should do it again, though. Look, let’s just call it what it is. You thought you were having fun and I thought we were beginning something. Neither of us talked about it, and we were both drunk. I’m the one who attached unreasonable expectations to it.” He bows deeply, glad that at least it’s being purged. “I’m very sorry. It was unforgivable.”

 

"Ah--no, none of the bowing, it's really fine," Yukimura dismisses, waving a hand. "Really, Kura, let's just…both be done with apologizing and set it aside, okay? I'm just really glad I got a chance to talk to you about it. I shouldn't have put it off for so long. Are you--you're doing okay otherwise, right? How did Nationals go?" 

 

That’s a sorer subject at the moment, and the smile isn’t exactly genuine. “We faced your team in the first round,” he says, by way of explanation. “I didn’t get to play.”

 

 _Always glorious, always victorious_ , Yukimura wryly thinks. It's not like he can apologize for that, so--"Ah, well, I guess that means I just have to come up to Osaka and play a match with you sometime."

 

 _That_ smile is a lot more genuine. “I’d like that. Hey, is there any chance you could bring someone else from your team who’s good? Kin-chan has been bothering me about getting to play, he was really depressed.”

 

"Anyone that isn't a _senior_ is actually pretty nice…" Yukimura hedges, because thinking positively is a good thing to do about one's tennis team, especially when they _apparently_ do like him. "I can see about bringing a bunch of them along if you want, and we can have some practice matches or something." 

 

“That might be nice. We’ll bring drinks and everything,” Shiraishi offers helpfully.

 

"I'll see what I can come up with, then! I have to clear it with the captain, of course, but…" Yukimura just shrugs, smiling wryly. "If nothing else, I'll bring up Sanada. He's good with Kaede, so I'm sure he'll be fine with Kintarou." 

 

“Sanada?” Shiraishi thinks for a moment. “Oh! Sanada Genichirou? We played him last year as part of that doubles pair, but I didn’t think he was playing this year. Is he back on the team?”

 

"…He's my doubles partner," Yukimura admits on a sigh. "Or would have been, if I had played in the Nationals." Probably better not to say that Sanada is his boyfriend just yet. That's awkward. "No, I'm not any better at doubles, please don't ask."

 

“I’d rather play you both in singles,” Shiraishi admits. “Though if you want to practice...well, I think our doubles teams are great,” he says, a bit defiantly. “If Rikkai had a better sense of humor, you wouldn’t have stood a chance!”

 

"I'm very sure that's the case," Yukimura solemnly says. "Maybe we'll just play singles this time, though. I have no desire to embarrass myself further in the upcoming months."

 

Shiraishi’s face brightens in relief. “That sounds fantastic. Oh, if you really want to test yourself, you should play Senri--er, Chitose. I think he could really give you a run for your money, even at peak condition. He and Tezuka fought to a draw this last year! Do you know Tezuka, from Seigaku?”

 

"Oh, yes. He's rather infamous." That's one way to put it, when he's listened to Atobe make Tezuka whimper for the past three weeks the next bedroom over. Yukimura spares a glance at a clock, and winces. "Actually, Kura--I really should run. If I miss my train, my parents will never let me out of the house again. I _swear_ I haven't blocked you on my phone, so send me a text if you want to play tennis soon, okay?" 

 

That’s another relief, and Shiraishi moves to open the door. “I will. I always like playing tennis with you. Do you want me to see you to the train station? Better yet, take my bicycle, I’ll jog down and pick it up later.”

 

"I was actually going to run there myself! And if I'm late, that's my own fault for being too slow," Yukimura hums, toeing his shoes back on and trying not to think about how he's been on a plane for far too many hours. This was all worth it, because at least he can breathe a bit easier where Shiraishi is concerned. "Later, Kura!"

 

 _Somehow_ , he makes it, albeit sweaty and gross and generally wanting to curl up in a ball and die. It's worth it for not getting yelled at by his mother--and father, who is home from his extended business trip finally. Scratch that, he's still yelled at by his mother, though that's about his hair, and not his tardiness. Yukimura opts for a shower and ignoring her. 

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[/o/ guess who's home]**

 

Does he get an award for not just showing up at Sanada's doorstep? Climbing him like a tree out of _nowhere_ seems like it might be somewhat rude.

 

Hardly a minute passes before his phone beeps.

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[this is unforgivable but I am not home. I went to my uncle’s house on the beach. I can come get you in the morning or you can meet me]**

 

**[out here tomorrow or I can come home to stay. I want to see you very badly. I hope that is not too forward of me to say. You don’t]**

 

**[have to come if you do not want to but it is much cooler by the coast and I wrote you a poem about the quiet power of the ocean.]**

 

Yukimura lets out a broken little noise that he _knows_ Atobe would be teasing him about. This is probably intensified by the fact that he makes a full body dive out of the shower to retrieve his phone the moment it beeps and that's not exactly the _quietest_ set of noises ever. 

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[send me the address and i can come tonight if my parents will let me]**

 

Ah. That's a little pushy. 

 

**[assuming that's okay and everything]**

 

Slightly better.

 

"Nii-chan, did you collapse again?"

 

"Kaede, get out of my room!" Christ, he's going to drown himself.

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[I would carry you here on my back. Let me figure out how to send an address with this.]**

 

A moment later, instead of another text, a picture file appears. The file consists of a labeled mailbox, hand-lettered and well cared-for.

 

Yukimura is very done with his life choices and settles for just laying his head down on the cold marble of his bathroom's sink for a moment. 

 

And through the door: "Nii-chan, are you _sure_ \--"

 

"Nii-chan is drowning himself, go away!"

 

"I'm telling Mom."

 

"Don't tell Mom! _Christ_ , Kaede." 

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[just getting out of the shower so give me a bit, but i'll be there later. i'd rather have you carry me but i'll survive]**

 

“Sei-chan? Kaede says you’re dying, this is why I _told_ you not to lock the door! You have five seconds before I get your father out of the comfy chair to break it down.”

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[I can carry you recreationally once you get here if that is an acceptable alternative. The moon is beautiful tonight.]**

 

**[Sorry I sent a photograph of the moon but it hasn’t finished uploading.]**

 

**月** **.jpg**

 

Yukimura slowly slides to the floor and tries very hard not to hug his phone to his chest. "I'm not dying, I'm just _naked_. Mom, give me more than five seconds," he huffs.

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[you're going to kill me if you don't hold back until i get there]**

 

He claws his way to a towel, and slings that around his waist before he unlocks the door. "Because I'm not dying, can I go over to Sanada's? Well, to his uncle's beach house, actually…" 

 

“Do you have a ride? Have you done your homework? Are you sure you’re not dying? It’s not like your father and I haven’t seen you naked, Sei-chan. Are you masturbating?”

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[of the two of us I think its me who is in danger. This is my first time missing someone in a long time.]**

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[i missed you the whole time i was in England and i didn't think i could miss anything about Japan]**

 

"I'm going to run there like a track star, what do you think?" Yukimura mutters, opening the door to glower at her. "The only thing I'm dying of is the fact my boyfriend keeps sending me love poetry, so _please_ let me go and see him. We're going to do our homework together and everything." It's definitely already all done. 

 

“Do you need a ride? You have to wear clothes when you go to his house, even if it’s a beach house. Does he know what to do if you fall down?”

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[I thought I preferred being alone out here. It feels like you should be here too. I am not disturbed enough.]**

 

"…Mom, are these questions punishment for cutting my hair?" Yukimura deadpans, and he turns partially away to start cuddling his phone.

 

**To: Actual Tennis Samurai**

**[i'm going to put this phone away before you kill me]**

 

“Fine, enjoy walking to the beach by yourself. Or are you just going to ride your high horse? I hear the seat on that is _wicked_.”

 

**To:** **雪村清市**

**[Fine I will run on the beach. Ill see you arrive when you get here. Let me know if you decide not to come.]**

 

Yukimura slowly turns his head back to her, trying not to pout _too_ much. "But if you love your son, you'll give him a ride so he can see his boyfriend for the first time in a month."

 

"I want to go, too!" Kaede immediately jumps in, poking her head back into his bedroom. "I bet you two are going to play _tennis_."

 

Patience, Seiichi. "Yeah, that's definitely what we're going to do. Beach tennis."

 

Yukimura Saeki sighs, then grabs her keys. “Be in the car in five minutes. _Not_ you, Kaede. Seiichi obviously got tired out from all that vacation and needs some extra vacation, god forbid he help out around the house or anything.”

 

"Mooom, it's so I can do my homework, and so I can play tennis with someone _really good_ ," Yukimura wheedles, even as he runs to throw his clothes on. "You can't fault me for that!"

 

Kaede grabs her mother's arm, dangling there slowly. "Don't worry, Mom," she solemnly says. "I'll become a good son in his absence." 

 

“Fine. Seiichi, you’re no longer the firstborn son. Kaede-kun will be taking your place, your room, and your inheritance. You can have her bike with the ribbons.”

 

Yukimura doesn't look up from stuffing things into his tennis bag. "Can I have it at the beach?"

 

Kaede hisses. "He doesn't understand the power of the crimson blade."

 

“Kaede-kun, a good son doesn’t whisper creepily. Go help your father build something, I have to take your sister to meet her husband.”

 

"He said I'd be a stylish bride," Yukimura sighs, hefting his bag up over his shoulder.

 

Kaede makes a face, muttering something about how the only thing she's going to be able to build is a pulley to get her dad out of his comfy chair before stalking off. 

 

"…Also, I'll help around the house when I get back," Yukimura adds sulkily. "And do a garden thing again. Maybe." 

 

~

 

The moon really _is_ beautiful tonight. Sanada watches its slow progress across the sky, the arch of it seeming so random, yet elegant at the same time. He’s down to a pair of swimming trunks, and only that because it keeps everything decent and from slapping around. The sand slips under his bare feet, and that’s good, that’s endurance and stability training. If he can run on sand, he can play on sand. 

 

It’s nearly two hours since he’d started running that he sees lights, the only headlights for miles around that he’s seen in the last 48 hours. Changing course slightly, he heads for the road, and the old rusty gate that won’t allow car access to the beach. 

 

He waves his hand, suddenly wishing he’d brought a shirt, because Yukimura’s mother is eyeing his torso with thankfully non-speculative interest. Sanada bows, then straightens. “Thank you for coming. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.” Ah, he’s sweating rather profusely, and notices it now that he’s no longer running.

 

"My mom is basically the best," Yukimura cheerfully says as he hops out of the car, and paws at the back door until it's unlocked for him to drag his bag out. "I'll call you in the morning, okay, Mom? Just you know everything's okay." _Now leave because dear god have you_ seen _Sanada, I need to at least make it indoors or something before I kiss him stupid_. He almost says it. Almost. Just because that would get the point across more quickly, and there is nothing more on his mind right then than having a taste of Sanada's lips after what feels like an eternity. 

 

…Dammit, but Atobe is right. He has it _bad_.

 

“Yeah,” Yukimura’s mother breathes a little bit, before catching herself. “Ah, right! Be good, please call if you start dying, and if you don’t call by noon I’ll have your father come pick you up after thoroughly investigating the place. Gen-chan, I’m leaving him in your hands.”

 

Sanada can’t even protest the nickname, not when she drives away so quickly--and then all he’s thinking is that Yukimura is _here_ , and that’s pretty much about the best thing to happen to him in a month. 

 

He swallows, and steps forward. “Hi.”

 

Yukimura spares a quick glance over his shoulder, just to make sure his mother is _really_ gone. Only then does he beam up at Sanada, intensely pleased with himself that he is here and they are alone. "Hi."

 

“I’m glad you came.” 

 

Sanada is far too aware of his own breathing, labored from more than the run, and his own currently shirtless state. It makes sense when he’s running or swimming, but seems inappropriate when they’re just _talking_. “I can show you to the cabin where we’ll sleep, if you want to put your things down, or...or I can show you the cove where I’ve been sitting, it’s quite near here.”

 

"Cove first, I like the beach at night. My bag's not heavy or anything." Yukimura's head cocks as he follows a trickle of sweat that slides down the side of Sanada's neck, along his collarbone, straight down his chest--ah. "So, are we the only ones here? I know you said you watched this place for your uncle before…"

 

“It’s his beach,” Sanada confirms. “My family has had care of it for several generations, back when you could still buy land without being part of the yakuza.” He shoulders Yukimura’s bag without thinking of it, turning and motioning with his head to follow. “I hope you can swim. I don’t know what they teach overseas. There’s not much of a current, at least.”

 

"…How exciting," Yukimura deadpans, and trots after Sanada. "Maybe I'll just cling to your back. Call it strength training."

 

Sanada pauses. His face flushes, but he carries on nonetheless. “I could carry you,” he offers. “I did say I would. I don’t know, you might be tired from England or something.”

 

"I'm very tired. I was on a plane for about 11 hours." A _private_ one, but that's not the point. Yukimura curls a hand loosely about Sanada's arm. "Also, I am pretty sure your muscles have gotten even nicer while I was gone." 

 

“Nonsense. They’re just energized right now.” Still, it’s _nice_ to have Yukimura touching him like that, and Sanada isn’t shy about the fact that he wants more. Removing the bag from his shoulder for the moment, he turns, hefting the other boy easily onto his back and starting to jog toward the cove. “Comfortable?”

 

Yukimura gleefully shoves his face into Sanada's hair and flings his arms about his shoulders. "Yep," he hums, and he _swears_ he'll be good, at least long enough to keep clinging to Sanada happily. "You are a very comfortable warhorse, actually."

 

Sanada snorts, realizes what he’s done, and tries not to groan. “That’s about the most complimentary thing you could have called me right now,” he admits. “I don’t think I mind it.” It’s hard to mind it when Yukimura’s arms are around him. It’s hard to mind _anything_.

 

"I should hope not. You've been telling me for weeks now about crushing things and generally paving the way towards victory. Which, I might add," Yukimura breathes, hooking his chin over Sanada's shoulder, "is still _really_ attractive."

 

“If you keep breathing, I’m going to step in more potholes,” Sanada mutters, goosebumps rippling over his arms as he picks up the pace. “Of course we’ll be victorious when we crush those two lunatics you chose to spend your summer break with.”

 

"I like breathing, it keeps me from turning blue. And be nice, those lunatics are my friends…both of which," he slyly adds, "I have been playing tennis with this entire summer. I am _very_ informed on everything about their recently developed styles."

 

Sanada grunts. “I know we could beat them with or without that information,” he growls. “I’d rather have had you home and practicing with me. We’re better than anyone who needs to resort to those things in order to win.”

 

Yukimura decides biting the lobe of Sanada's ear is a good response to that. "Even if that's true, there's not _any_ reason not to do research on your opponents and know what you're up against. Going into a match blind isn't the smart way to do anything. But, for what it's worth…I think I would have rather been here with you, too. Though I really did miss playing on grass…"

 

“How was Wimbledon? You were so excited to go. I’m sorry the phone was misbehaving so much, it’s a very troublesome machine.” Sanada doesn’t mention how many times he’d hit “delete, delete, delete,” because the ends of his fingers are too wide to easily hit the buttons.

 

" _Really_ good." He probably sighs that out a little too enthusiastically, but he doesn't _care_. "Don't worry about the phone thing, you were way too cute. Ahh, but Wimbledon--I'm dragging you there some day just so you can see the difference. There's nothing like it here, grass courts just aren't a _thing_ in Japan. It's all synthetic stuff. Real grass plays a lot slower, it's fun to watch people struggle on it." 

 

“Never played on a grass court,” Sanada admits. “Sounds difficult. Does the ball even bounce? Might as well play on the beach. That’s the cove we’re going to up ahead,” he points out, nodding his head in that direction and hoisting Yukimura a bit farther up onto his back. Waves lap gently at the surf, a dark cave cut out of the cliff nearby, one pinprick of light--a lantern he’d left this morning--flickering.

 

"See, you're thinking about the kind of grass that grows around here, where it's all mushy and soft. The ground is actually really hard still, because of all the maintenance on it." Yukimura peers up and over Sanada's head, and he smiles. "Kind of ridiculous that I spent all that time in England," he sighs out, eyes lidding, "when I am pretty sure this is something I've been looking more forward to."

 

Sanada isn’t going to mention how he’d spent far too much time on Expedia Japan, looking at his savings account and wondering how stupid he would feel afterward. “I practiced a lot,” he says instead. “It didn’t keep my mind busy like I thought it would, though.”

 

"Ahh, I'm screwed, then. You'll wipe the floor with me next time we play," Yukimura sighs, though he hopes that isn't true.  Playing against Tezuka every day for three weeks was an _experience_ , and going into continuous tiebreaks with Atobe… _ugh._ "My friend at Shitenhouji said you guys won the Nationals, but _you_ didn't play. Slacker."

 

“I’m part of a doubles pair,” Sanada points out, “and my partner fucked off to England. Besides, I volunteered to play in singles, but we didn’t get that far. Not surprising, we’ve never had a Singles One game against that school.”

 

Yukimura snorts and drapes himself forward slightly. "Maybe they'll learn to just put Kura in Singles 3 next year. Mmm, speaking of which, did the seniors retire?" He hopes they did. Rikkai's captain has been nothing but grating on his nerves since the start, but then again, _anyone_ that tells him what to do tends to make that happen. Avoiding team situations since birth, Yukimura Seiichi.

 

“We had a ceremony for their graduation, yes.” Sanada crests the last hill, and pauses. “If you don’t want to get your feet wet, pick them up higher. We have to wade through a couple feet here, that’s what makes it so private.”

 

Yukimura makes a face before taking the effort to heft himself up, sandals dangling from his toes. "You should be captain next year. No, scratch that. _Niou_."

 

Sanada’s brows furrow a bit at the mention of Niou. “I’m not sure about that. In fact, I’m not even sure he’s going to be on the team next year,” he says, trying to wade through without splashing so much that it hits Yukimura’s feet. The water isn’t very cold in a shallow cove like this, but it’s still enough to wake him up.

 

"Eh? Why not? He's quite good." He claws his way up Sanada a bit more, not interested in being damp and salty. It also makes him nervous to think of there not being anyone on the team that he actually spends time with other than Sanada, no matter if there are others that apparently _like him_. Then again, Yukimura can understand it, because--"Ah, well…I'm not sure I'll be on it, either."

 

“What?” Sanada stops still, alarmed at that. “You’re giving up tennis? After all you went through to pull me back in, you’d just give up?” His heart is _not_ thudding, that’s just a reaction to cold.

 

"I didn't say I was giving up _tennis_. Just that I don't know about staying on the team." Yukimura frowns, trying not to think about how he can _feel_ Sanada's heart about to break out through his chest. "I'm just not sure I'm really suited to be on a _team_ ," he admits on a sigh. "I'm also fairly disagreeable and obnoxious about taking orders. You know, things that do not make for a good team _mate_. I figured I would save the new captain that much trouble." 

 

“Maybe it would be different if you were in singles.” Unspoken, but no less upsetting to Sanada, is the thought, _Maybe I’m the problem_. “Niou seemed to think so.”

 

Oh. Shit. "If he quits because of me, I'm going to punch him in the dick," Yukimura snaps, and maybe he digs his nails into Sanada's shoulders a little too much. "It has nothing to do with it being singles or doubles. I'm just…" He trails off, remembering that list of people he needs to apologize to because he's been an _asshole_ , and the vitriol slips out of him in a long, weary sigh that leaves him slumping against Sanada's back. "Mad that I wasn't good enough and that I couldn't play."

 

Sanada reaches the other side of the water, and hoists Yukimura off of his back, turning to lift him up so they’re eye to eye. “You’re an excellent tennis player,” he says firmly. “And there’s always a next game. And...if it’s up to me, you’ll play in that next game.” His cheeks color slightly, and he sets Yukimura down, looking away out across the ocean. “And it is up to me. They asked me to be captain.”

 

"Oh," Yukimura says, somewhat weakly as he settles properly onto his feet again. Even if it's _expected_ \--who _wouldn't_ want Sanada as captain?--it's just… "You accepted? I thought you still wanted to focus on kendo."

 

Sanada rolls his eyes at that. “I prefer kendo as personal practice. The competitive circuit is boring.” He shifts slightly, something obviously on his mind, though he’s hesitant to bring it up. “About Niou…ugh, never mind.” It’s a stupid idea, a dumb suspicion, and he doesn’t want it confirmed, anyway.

 

"You didn't think it was boring when you wanted me to act like a yankee," Yukimura sniffs, folding his arms across his chest. "And what about Niou? Spit it out, you started saying a thing and it's annoying when you don't finish." _Japanese people,_ though.

 

Sanada’s eyes narrow. He folds his arms over his chest, and asks, “Why is he saying he might be giving you his singles spot? He…” Damn, but this is _embarrassing_. “He poked my neck, where you...you left a mark. Then he said that.”

 

If there is a god, he will smite Niou Masaharu. Any and all worry for _that_ asshole flies out the window and is replaced with a hefty dose of nervous irritation. "Because he's a lunatic, kick him off the team." 

 

Sanada just raises one eyebrow. That’s a bit too defensive for his liking.

 

Actually, the more Yukimura thinks about this, the more this might work to his advantage to…well, save _Atobe's_ life, if nothing else. Also, maybe he won't feel so bad about Sanada never knowing. "We joked at one point," he finally admits on a sigh, "that if you and I hooked up, he'd give me his singles spot…because you're really…you _were_ really difficult for me to deal with," Yukimura wryly adds. "I dropped it all _awhile_ ago, but I guess he thinks it's still a thing."

 

“You had an agreement about it?” That makes Sanada uncomfortable, in ways he can’t even quite pinpoint. 

 

Maybe the worst part is that it isn’t exactly a _surprise_. He’d had a sinking feeling it was something like that, ever since Niou had said it, but hadn’t wanted to believe it. Hardly wanting to ask, he nonetheless voices, “When? When did you call it off?”

 

"It was just a joke," Yukimura insistently repeats, trying very hard not to start panicking. "I stopped trying, honestly, after that time I kissed you in the locker room." That's not a lie…technically. He really did stop trying at that point, because he was very, very certain that Sanada would never want even to speak to him again. "I didn't think it would ever happen, anyway," he tiredly says, "and when I actually started to _like you_ …I really didn't want anything to happen. Not like _that_." 

 

“When,” Sanada repeats, heart sinking as he hasn’t heard the words he’s been wanting to hear, “did you call it off? To him?” This isn’t how he’d wanted to spend the evening. He’s soaked from the thighs down, and even if it’s a warm and balmy night, the cool of the water is seeping into him--or maybe out of him, as his stomach knots around something cold.

 

"I haven't been spending a lot of time with him at _all_ since I broke up with him," Yukimura defensively retorts, "so it didn't come up." _My arms are just folded, I'm not hugging myself, this is not an anxious posture._ "Sanada, it _was called off_. I--" He exhales, long and hard. "That's one of the reasons why I didn't want us to do anything before I left for England. I didn't _want_ to _win_ anything." 

 

“So...it wasn’t that you wanted to wait.” Sanada isn’t sure why, but he suddenly wishes he had a shirt on. Maybe it would make him feel a little less vulnerable. Stupid, embarrassing text messages he’d sent come back to him--what if Yukimura had just been playing with him? He’d shamed himself, and for what?

 

Yukimura’s eyes catch the moonlight, and Sanada’s heart thuds. _No_ , he thinks suddenly, either because he believes it or because he wants so badly to believe that it’s almost true. He moves, grabbing Yukimura’s wrists, holding him fast. “I don’t want to think it’s like this,” he says quietly, dark eyes searching Yukimura’s face intently. “Just tell me, honestly, that you’re here now with me because you want to be, and for no other reason. Fuck everything else.”

 

"I want to be here because of you." Nothing has ever fled from his tongue so easily (maybe desperately), and Yukimura swallows, nervously looking up at him. "There's…look, do you really think there's anything else in Japan that I wanted to come back to so badly?" he manages with a laugh, though that comes out too anxious, a little wet at the edges. "I don't know what else to do anymore, other than think about being with you." Stupid. That was stupid. Mostly, he's just stupid, and he's starting to remember those anxious thoughts of _what am I going to do, what is Sanada even going to want with me when he figures out how horrible I am?_

 

“I was sure this was a bad idea,” Sanada says quietly. “I still kind of am.” Slowly, he lets go of Yukimura’s wrists, letting them stay up or fall, and cups the other boy’s face in two large hands instead. “But I don’t want it to be.” 

 

To keep himself from saying anything else, anything even MORE embarrassing, he leans in close, close enough that he can feel the short, warm breaths coming from Yukimura’s mouth and nose. “Can we...reset? Start over?”

 

Yukimura nods rapidly, reaching up to hurriedly grab at one of Sanada's hands. God, yes. This is why Sanada is so much better than anyone, because resetting is a _good_ thing, and the less he remembers of that stupid bet, of his mistakes, of everything he's done since he moved here, the _better_. "I'm sorry," he whispers, and he butts his head forward to lean his forehead against Sanada's, "for what it's worth. I can't even blame you if you'd want to drown me right now, but I'm selfish and kind of want to stay around you instead."

 

Sanada’s brow furrows, but his voice is warm when he steps forward, not letting his hands drop from Yukimura’s face. His fingertips edge gently into the other man’s hair, and he murmurs, “I’ve definitely wanted to do that before, but I’d rather…”

 

That’s a bit hard to say, but not hard to do, and he leans in, brushing his lips against Yukimura’s in a gentle, meaningful kiss.

 

This wasn't explicitly how he wanted his apology to Sanada to be, but those are just _details_. 

 

Yukimura kind of sags. It's impossible not to with the relief that courses down his spine, and he lurches forward to grab at Sanada's shoulders maybe harder than necessary. He's nothing but warm, solid muscle, and Yukimura digs his fingers in, stretches up to kiss him back, and doesn't think he'll be able to stop kissing for _awhile_ , considering how he's wanted to do nothing but this for the past four weeks. 

 

If Sanada still wants him, then maybe he's doing _something_ right again. 

 

Sanada’s sure it’s not manly for his knees to quiver a bit. To hide it, he tugs Yukimura down, splaying out on the sand and tugging the other man into his lap. “I know you don’t like to get wet or sandy, but…” Which is all he can manage before he starts kissing Yukimura again, over and over, trying to keep himself from letting his hands wander too much. Yukimura feels delicate, lithe but light in his arms, and the weight of him on his back had been negligible at best.

 

"Don't care," Yukimura mumbles against Sanada's mouth, and he really, _really_ doesn't, not when he _finally_ has Sanada to wriggle up against. "You feel good enough that it doesn't matter," he breathily adds, his teeth unintentionally catching against Sanada's lower lip before he decides he likes that, and nibbles again with a slow, drawn-out suck. For all the strength and tension everywhere else, Sanada's lips are _soft_ and his reactions to Yukimura kissing back--even just the little twitches that Yukimura can barely feel--are kind of perfect.

 

From the very few manga, movies, and books Sanada has seen about the trivial nonsense that is romance, he is fairly certain that kisses are nothing but a preamble to the ripping of clothing, if they’re not a peck on the cheek. 

 

That doesn’t make sense, because there’s little more than Sanada wants than to keep doing this for the foreseeable future. He revels in every brush of Yukimura’s tongue, the graze of his teeth the way his mouth is warm the way that nowhere else on Yukimura is.

 

Yukimura is quickly realizing that the last four weeks really were a waste of his time, no matter how much he'd been missing England. 

 

He's pretty sure the best thing he's done with his life since coming back to Japan is nestling himself up into Sanada's lap, wrapping his arms around his neck, and kissing him like his life depends on it. It kind of does, in a way. It makes him shiver all the way down to his toes, which end up curling when he pulls back just long enough to breathe before kissing Sanada again. He shifts in the process, the groan rumbling low from his throat somewhat frustrated when all he wants to do is take his shirt off and feel Sanada's skin against his own, but--too forward? Not sure. When has _he_ ever doubted himself in situations like this? 

 

There’s something unbelievably erotic about sharing Yukimura’s breath. Sanada makes a mental note, wanting to include it in a later poem. 

 

At least, he _tries_ to make a mental note, but when his heart is thudding this quickly, his breath coming so much faster than it should be from just _this_ , it’s not easy to think of anything at all. He lets out a noise, moving to try and adjust, and winds up yanking Yukimura down, hips rubbing against—

 

“Sorry,” he mutters, cheeks hot, and he claims another kiss so he doesn’t have to look at Yukimura.

 

Yukimura gives up, and gratefully lets his mind click off. 

 

Sand is annoying and all, but forgettable when he can roll over and drag Sanada down on top of him with a swift, sure yank. He lunges up afterwards, his breath hot and fast between kisses, a hand scratching down Sanada's spine, and his thighs eager to cradle Sanada's hips, squeezing around them to insistently drag him down when that shared heat between them is a notch above perfection. His own cock _aches_ , Sanada is hard enough that it has to hurt, and so there's not an ounce of regret to be had when Yukimura wriggles up against him, panting out a ragged exhale at how it feels just to grind against him through clothes. 

 

 _Shit_. 

 

Sanada might have muttered it aloud, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about _much_ right now, not with the way his teeth rake across soft skin, the way his hands dig in to lithe muscles, the way there’s a slow build of fire in his belly that rises every time Yukimura so much as breathes. This is good, better than he can remember anything ever being, better even than their hasty kisses in the kendo shed, and no one is coming to stop them. 

 

He doesn’t remember deciding to move, but then Yukimura is on his back, Sanada over him long and heavy and holding the other man down, kissing him for all he’s worth, pressing him down into the sand.

 

" _God_ , Sanada--" It kind of squeaks out between kisses, high and breathy and needy in ways that Yukimura normally doesn't like. He doesn't like the choice of a name, either, because it seems so impersonal, and why has he always been inclined to call Sanada by his family name, anyway, that's just weird. " _Genichirou_ ," he rasps out the next time he can suck in a full breath, his nails raking down Sanada's spine when he grinds his hips up. _That's_ better. _That's_ nice to say and to moan out and christ, he doesn't want to do anything but spread his legs and feel how much harder Sanada gets against him with every kiss.

 

The sound of his own name has never gone straight to his cock before.

 

Sanada’s cock is already aching, hard as he can ever remember being from the way Yukimura _squeaks_. At the hoarse, breathy exhalation, he lets out a startled grunt, hands yanking Yukimura involuntarily down, and before he can stop himself….

 

He gulps in a breath, pulling slowly away from the kiss as his hips still, mortification on his face. “I….sorry, I didn’t mean to so fast. Or at all.” _Way to show him you’re not a pathetic virgin, Genichirou._

 

Yukimura's hand is like a vice on Sanada's arm, dragging him back. "It's fine," he shakily exhales. "Really fine. Kind of really _hot_ , actually." When's the last time he ever made someone come from just saying their name, if ever? Ah, fuck, that shouldn't make _him_ so hard just to think about it, either, but he squirms all the same.

 

He grabs for one of Sanada's hands, mindlessly pushing it down. "I'm really close, too," he breathlessly admits. "Your fault." 

 

Having Yukimura hard and dripping against his hand is startling, and so good Sanada’s spent cock twitches hard. He groans, curling his fingers, more on instinct than anything because this is _nothing_ like being with himself. “Seiichi—”

 

The name tastes good on his tongue, and he buries his face in Yukimura’s shoulder, murmuring it again, again, breath coming fast and hot. “Seiichi, Seiichi, _Seiichi_ —”

 

Well, shit. 

 

Yukimura _likes_ to think he has pretty good control of himself, that he's prepared for this and he's not just going to melt at every little thing--but that's before Sanada's hand is on his cock and he can grind up against it without shame, before Sanada is breathing his _name_ against his skin and nothing has ever made him shudder like that, even though this is just a messy, awkward hand job and a few minutes ago he was pretty sure Sanada would never want to talk to him again--

 

He comes fast and hard and _squirms_ about it, with his hands clinging and clawing at Sanada's shoulders, his teeth nipping into the curve of his neck. Yukimura flops down dazedly, chest heaving, and makes a very pointed attempt not to become one with the sand and never move again. "That…." he begins, breathlessly, and then ends in a sound that is somewhat broken.

 

Sanada nods, only slightly less shaky. He straightens up, leaning on his arms, nuzzling his lips against the side of Yukimura’s face, and pulls back to look.

 

He’s no artist, but that’s just as well, because theres’s no way words could capture the way Yukimura looks to him right now, splayed out on the sand, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. Sanada stares for a lot longer than he’d intended, nothing short of enraptured. _I’m the reason he looks like that. I’m the one who gets to see this._

 

How could it not go to his head?

 

Yukimura reaches up, hauling Sanada right back down so that it's easier to stuff his face into his neck. " _Really_ worth the wait," he mumbles, shivering as he thinks about what a mess he still is, what a mess they _both_ are, and there is absolutely no one around to make that change anytime soon. "I kept thinking about this, you know, when I was in England." More than a few times, much to Atobe's chagrin.

 

Sanada nods, not quite trusting his voice. “Yeah.” 

 

There’s sand everywhere, and he doesn’t care. He leans down, burying his nose in Yukimura’s hair, and isn’t shy about inhaling. “You smell good. Different.”

 

"You _always_ smell good," Yukimura mutters, throwing his arms firmly about Sanada's back. More sand. Oh well. At this point, it's an inevitable. "I should've stolen a shirt of yours, or your jersey, before I left. _Then_ I would have had a better time pining." 

 

Sanada blinks. “Why? So I would have a reason to track you down and get it back, you mean? I already wanted to go to England.”

 

"Dumbass," Yukimura affectionately says, and lurches up to snap his teeth against Sanada's earlobe. "Try: so I could have something to shove my face in when I jerked off to the thought of you."

 

Sanada’s hips give a twitch at that. “So lewd,” he murmurs, mildly horrified at himself for finding the idea so erotic. “Imagination wasn’t good enough for you?”

 

"I have been informed that I can be a bit touchy-feely," Yukimura breathes, grinning as he wriggles underneath Sanada, and idly slides a hand down, thumbing over the jut of one hip. "Imagination is good and all, but…"

 

That makes Sanada’s breath catch, and his eyes lid slightly. He moves, just enough so he isn’t holding Yukimura down quite so thoroughly. “You…” Hmm, maybe this is a bit too embarrassing to say. Oh, well, no one else can see him, and Yukimura doesn’t seem to mind. “You can touch and feel now, if you want.”

 

He's probably never appreciated being given permission for something so much before in his life. Damn, this is a lot better than winning a stupid _bet_.  

 

Yukimura nuzzles his face into Sanada's neck, a kiss turning into a long, drawn-out suck. "I'm going to leave marks like this all over you if you let me, though," he murmurs, wriggling down slightly, with his nails scratching against Sanada's stomach. "Have to make sure I know where I've been."

 

Sanada bites his lip, leaning back onto his knees, settling into seiza--it’s difficult to stay leaning over Yukimura when he feels like his arms are going to give out at any second. “If you think you’re going to forget,” he rumbles, “I didn’t do a very good job. And…” God, how shameful, but he doesn’t care. “I don’t mind. If you leave marks.”

 

Yukimura's eyes flash as he hauls himself out of the sand, taking the opportunity to yank his shirt off once and for all. "Mmn, that's good. Because I can't think of a better way than just _remembering_ it," he lightly teases, crawling over, his hands splaying over Sanada's thighs. "If it were you making marks on _me_ …you'd be a lot more elegant, I bet. Tally marks," he thinks out out, and he traces a finger up the inside of one muscled thigh. "Right along here, as pretty as the rest of your calligraphy." 

 

Sanada’s cock twitches hard, reminding him of the grit now infesting his swimming trunks. The thought of making _tally marks_ on the inside of Yukimura’s thighs is enough to make him groan, and he does, eyes going down to the wet patch at the front of the other man’s trousers. “I want to make you like that again,” he breathes. “I have my brushes back at the cabin, I’ll catch up later.”

 

Apparently, that was a good button to push. Ah--for himself as well, who knew, because the idea makes him shiver. "How many marks do you think you'll end up leaving?" Yukimura murmurs, his fingers curling into the waistband of Sanada's shorts, tugging, wanting them _off_. "I want it to be a lot." _Need it to be_ , more like. 

 

Sanada licks his lips, a surge of tingling, exhilarated delight going through him at the insistent movements of those fingers. He raises up onto his knees, letting Yukimura tug his shorts down before getting rid of them the rest of the way. “I’m going to have you at least three times more tonight,” he murmurs, reaching over and looping his fingers in Yukimura’s waistband, using it to bring him closer. “Perhaps twice before breakfast tomorrow. How long can you stay?”

 

It's a little difficult not to just start clawing his way up Sanada all over again at those words, especially when his own cock is hard, aching all over again, and it makes him dizzy thinking about it. "Awhile," Yukimura answers immediately, quite sure he's going to glue himself to Sanada's futon at this rate, and he yanks at the fastenings of his pants to properly wriggle out of them. "Maybe I just live here now." 

 

“I’m here for the next six days,” Sanada offers. “There’s food and fresh water and electricity back at the cabin. There’s even…” He breaks off, realizing just how needy, how _urgent_ he’d been. “Right, right, in the cave--there’s blankets and light and a freshwater pool. That’s where I _meant_ this to--not on the sand,” he finishes lamely, standing up and offering Yukimura a hand.

 

"Ooh, you _have_ been planning," Yukimura laughs, grabbing Sanada's hand and hauling himself up no matter how he sways a little, legs not quite wanting to work. "Such a romantic." _And I probably don't deserve this_ is on the tip of his tongue, but christ, he _wants_ to do something that makes him deserve it--you know, other than making one's new boyfriend come just by breathing in his ear.

 

“I carried you down a private beach at sunset,” Sanada growls, pulling Yukimura close before leading him into the cave. “I should think I get some points for trying. I don’t usually...go in for this sort of thing.” He is definitely never going to let Yukimura see his internet search history.

 

"You get at _least_ 20 points," Yukimura hums, linking their fingers with a squeeze afterwards. "No one else has ever bothered," he adds more seriously, leaning over to butt his head against Sanada's shoulder. "I think you're very romantic." 

 

Having their fingers linked is one of the better things Sanada has ever felt, and he squeezes back. “I’m trying,” he admits.

 

The small circle of the lantern’s glow envelops them and he steps back, revealing the little set-up. “I wanted to make sure you were comfortable,” he explains, with a wave to the blanket-covered air mattress. “I know you’re not used to a futon.”

 

 _At any point, you can stop being adorable or I'm going to die,_ Yukimura desperately thinks, trying not to remember the compulsion he's felt to hug his phone for the past month, because he's going to end up grabbing Sanada and squeezing him like that and that might just end up ridiculous. Damn it. "Romantic, and very considerate," Yukimura says, and untangles their grasp only for the task of dousing himself in the freshwater pool that he definitely sees at the back of the cave. "I could have probably lived out here for a month. Too bad it isn't more fun to play tennis on the beach." 

 

“We can always take bicycles into town,” Sanada offers. “There’s a small fishing village about five kilometers away. I know you run farther than that, and I brought an extra bike...just in case you did want to come.” It’s easier, now that he’s not the only one naked, and he dips himself into the little pool with relief, feeling the sand and grit come off. “I love the beach, but I hate sand. If this were a heated spring, it would be perfect.”

 

Yukimura fairly wallows, drawing his knees up to his chest with a long, sated sigh. "You're the same as me; the sand is the worst part." Eventually, he stretches out a leg to poke Sanada with his toes. "We can go into town and everything, if you want. But mostly," he admits with a smile, "I just want to laze around with you a lot. I'm going to see you being lazy, too, if it kills me, _captain_." 

 

“I’m not very good at being lazy,” Sanada warns. “I want to keep up my training before I go back to school, or I’ll feel I wasted my summer.” He pauses, then adds, hand dropping down to poke one long toe, “But mostly, I want to spend time with you.”

 

"It's already almost the end of summer, give yourself a little break," Yukimura sniffs, wriggling his toes as he shoves his foot up into Sanada's hand. "You know, for like--a day. The other days, we can play tennis until we fall over. And you can show me more kendo things, if you want. Or maybe we can just have sex, that sounds fine and quite energizing." 

 

“Stop shoving your foot at me, you’re reminding me of Renji,” Sanada mutters, letting go of Yukimura’s foot. “I’m sure we’ll find something to do to pass the time. I’ve never been bored around you, at least.”

 

"…That sounds like something I don't want to know about," Yukimura warily replies, retracting his leg slowly. "Hey, is he going to be your vice captain? Or are you going to wait to appoint your son--I mean, Akaya?" Fuck, he's funny.

 

Sanada glares, but it’s one of his more gentle glare modes. “He might be ready,” he agrees slowly. “He’s captain this year. Led their team to victory, did you hear? He did very well.” He can’t help the surge of pride in his voice--damn, he does sound like a proud father.

 

"Mmmhm. Ah, but, it does look bad if one doubles team runs everything," Yukimura mildly warns. "At least, that was always the case back in England. Also, he's kind of too busy mimicking everything you do to be more than slightly useful. Thus are the pains of having a son that also enjoys tennis. Good luck."

 

Sanada probably isn’t as angry about the title as he should be. But that reminds him… “We’re not going to be a doubles team. Me and Akaya.”

 

Yukimura's eyebrow arch. "Oh? But wasn't the whole promise 'I'll wait to play doubles with you in high school'?"

 

“He seemed to think that I broke that promise,” Sanada says, though he doesn’t sound upset. It had been worth it. “Now he thinks he’s too good for doubles, and he _is_ better than the rest of my singles.”

 

"He's not better than me." More matter-of-fact, less a challenge. 

 

Sanada raises an eyebrow. “You haven’t played him seriously. He has another level you haven’t seen. Besides, I thought you were quitting the team.”

 

"Levels are nice, but it's still the same game," Yukimura dryly retorts, and slowly makes to haul himself out of the water. "And I said I haven't decided yet. Maybe I should, if you're captain. You might be prone to favoritism." 

 

“I’ll probably rarely play.” Sanada shrugs, hoisting himself onto the smooth rocks nearby. “Singles One of Rikkai rarely does. If Singles Two plays, someone will get yelled at.”

 

"What's the point if you don't get to play?" Yukimura sighs, stretching out with his arms above his head. "Ahh, this is why I should just do singles tournaments."

 

“You should.” Sanada can’t help the way his eyes track down, over every bit of Yukimura’s lithe, toned body. “You’d dominate the circuit. There are few people on the high school circuit who can rival you, you know that. Maybe me, Atobe, Akaya, two from Seigaku, and that one from Shitenhouji can give you a run for your money, but I can’t think of anyone else. Not at your level.”

 

"The problem is that there just isn't a big enough circuit in Japan, and with all the travel involved…" Yukimura shrugs, eyes lidding as he drops himself down next to Sanada. "First of all, my parents won't allow it. Second of all--ah, well, that's the big problem. Unless it's local, or I'm traveling with _Keigo_." 

 

“Instead of complaining about all your choices,” Sanada rumbles, tossing a towel in Yukimura’s face, “you should just pick one and make it work. Did you always give up so easily?”

 

Yukimura glowers at him over the towel. "Not when I actually had options that were good. Fine, _Sanada-buchou_ , give me a reason to stay on _your_ team." 

 

Sanada grabs the towel, and starts briskly rubbing him down, tousling his hair and working down his torso. “We’ll get to spend time together,” he suggests. “You like at least a couple of us. You can play doubles or singles. I’ll give you my spot if you want, I don’t mind being a non-playing captain. It’ll be Niou, and Akaya, and Yagyuu, and Marui and Jackal, and one of Akaya’s doubles teams that’s coming up. That’s most of the people you like.”

 

"We're going to spend time together, anyway," Yukimura mutters, blowing a mussed strand of his hair out of his face. He reminds himself that this is the kind of attitude Atobe was chiding him about, and so he fights back the urge to sulk and growl about tennis, of all things. "I'll think about it. I don't want you to not play because of me. You're too good not to play." 

 

“You know that if I’m captain, I’ll spend a lot of time with the team,” Sanada points out. “With that, kendo, music, and the new production, I won’t have much time for leisure. Tennis could be the easiest place to see each other--but I don’t want you to play because of me, either.”

 

"…Everything you've listed, I am ultimately involved in," Yukimura says, deadpan, and he cocks his head to the side. "In theory. Unless I have been relegated to 'stupid sports freak' only. I _guess_ I can refrain from being your protégé, accompanist, and potential costar and retract into my selfish, tennis-mongering shell."

 

Sanada’s face darkens, and he stands, looming over Yukimura. “How can you say that? You have talent men would kill for, and you’re throwing it all away? Why?”

 

Ah. Right. Apparently, any time spent in England makes him forget that Japanese people do not understand sarcasm. "It's that sarcasm thing again, Genichirou," Yukimura solemnly says, reaching out to rest a hand on Sanada's arm. "Although you _are_ attractive when you are trying to intimidate me." 

 

“I don’t like that sarukasumu thing,” Sanada growls, batting away that hand. “You should just say what you mean. It’s better for everyone.”

 

"But it isn't anywhere _near_ as fun." Yukimura grabs at his hand instead, drawing it to his lips to press a kiss to Sanada's palm. "But seriously _\--_ if you think you're getting rid of me except for in _tennis_ , we're going to have a problem."

 

“What I was _saying_ is that I don’t have much time to enjoy doing the things I like,” Sanada says, still stern. “Not that I was going to stop spending time with you. And if you can’t go pro, stay on the team. It’s easy as that.”

 

"This is why you are going to have an aneurysm and die at the age of 20," Yukimura mutters, and bites down gently onto the tip of a long index finger. "Ah, whatever; just spend time doing me instead, problem solved."

 

Sanada opens his mouth, then closes it again when Yukimura’s teeth graze his skin. His skin prickles, and he sucks in a breath. “Don’t...don’t do that.”

 

That's a surefire way to make sure he keeps doing something. Yukimura's eyebrows arch high, and he flicks his tongue against the same finger, letting it catch against his lower lip when he tugs Sanada's hand in closer. "Make me."

 

Sanada’s breath comes out in a groan, and he grabs for the other boy, yanking him close with one large hand on his hip. They’re both still damp, and Yukimura feels cool to the touch. “At some point,” he murmurs, his finger curling slowly against Yukimura’s tongue, “you can draw me, if you want.”

 

Yukimura groans, his eyes fluttering as his cheeks hollow for a long, pointed suck on the finger that slides against his tongue before he releases it with a slick, sticky pop. "Yeah," he breathes, lurching forward, his cock already hard as it presses against Sanada's hip, "that sounds good, at some point."

 

Sanada falters for a moment, then steels his resolve and reaches down, curling his hand around Yukimura’s quickly-hardening cock. “It’s warm,” he mutters, not sure why he’s surprised at such a basic fact of biology. “You...yours is different,” he finishes lamely.

 

Huffing out a breath, Yukimura lets his head loll forward against Sanada's shoulder, his hips twitching forward on their own accord. "You still seem to like it well enough," he teases, stretching up a bit to press a kiss to Sanada's neck, tasting less the saltiness of sweat now and instead just _skin_. His own fingers trail down Sanada's hip before wrapping around his cock, and Yukimura shivers at the slight stickiness already there on the tip. "…If you want," he hedges, because he wants, he wants a _lot_ , "I can put my mouth on yours." 

 

Sanada’s retort dies on his lips. Most of his desire to do anything dies on his lips, and he shudders, hips rutting forward. “Yeah,” he rasps, fingers digging into Yukimura’s sides. “I’ve thought about that a lot, while you were gone.”

 

" _Now_ who's the lewd one?" Yukimura groans, squirming in Sanada's hold as he mouths another kiss to his neck. He's already on his way down the second he can get Sanada's hold to loosen, teeth not the kindest when they scrape over a nipple. "Wish you would've told me, I would have gotten off to that."

 

“Be fair,” Sanada rasps, knees buckling when Yukimura’s teeth-- _Yukimura’s teeth_. “That’s not the kind of thing you can just _say_ \--oh never mind, you probably would.”

 

"You could have told me over the phone," Yukimura hums, dropping down to his knees with a shiver, "and you could have listened to me get off from 10,000 kilometers away." Not that it matters now, though, because he's got Sanada and his really, _really_ nice cock right here, with which Yukimura thinks he's making _great_ use of by curling his fingers around it and dragging his tongue, slick and hot, over the already dripping head of it. It makes _him_ shudder, and Yukimura's toes curl as he swallows around the taste. 

 

Sanada doesn’t mean to grab Yukimura’s head, fisting his hands in that sleek wavy hair. He doesn’t _mean_ to, but there’s little else to do when he feels a _mouth_ on his cock, hot and wet and slick. “Gonna fall over,” he barely manages to get out, thighs already trembling from the strain of keeping him upright when he wants so badly to just _thrust_. “Ah--that’s—- _god_ —”

 

Yukimura does a solid job of not laughing, and simultaneously wishing for once that he hadn't cut his hair, because then Sanada would have all the more to grab at. "Try not to," he breathlessly teases, and slides his hands to Sanada's hips instead to try and steady him a _little_. "I've barely had a taste, Genichirou." _Consider it strength training_ is on the tip of his tongue, but eh--it's better to lick again instead, and to wrap his lips around Sanada's cock for a longer, drawn out suck. Maybe he's a bit merciless, but his own cock aches between his legs, and makes him squirm with every throb.

 

“Rude,” Sanada groans, and his hips snap forward, rutting against Yukimura’s face, breathing heavily as his eyes roll back into his head, cock bumping against the back of the other man’s throat. “ _God_.” He refrains from the obvious, since he doesn’t really want to think about just how much practice Yukimura must have had in order to have gotten this good.

 

Ah, shit. 

 

The _only_ thing that takes him any part by surprise is the fact that Sanada is just as merciless as he, and that only serves to make Yukimura suck in a fast, ragged breath through his nose as he swallows hard around his cock. The weight on his tongue and ache in his jaw only serve to make him harder, and Yukimura _likes_ how hard those hands are in his hair, dragging him down and _making_ him swallow all of Sanada until there's just a _little_ bit of relenting that lets him draw back.

 

Yukimura sucks in a real, full breath, no matter how ragged around the edges it is, and briefly shuts his eyes when Sanada's cock bumps back against his lips. "You must have _really_ wanted this," he breathes, grabbing at Sanada's cock again with needy fingers as he mouths wet, sloppy kisses against it. "How often did you think about shutting me up with it?" 

 

“You’re talking,” Sanada grunts, and makes haste to stop that from happening again. He runs a thumb over Yukimura’s shiny bottom lip, and urges his mouth open, sliding between it to rub the tip of his cock against Yukimura’s tongue. It’s almost so lewd that he _doesn’t_ feel embarrassed; it’s hard to care what anyone would think when Yukimura’s teeth and lips and tongue are dragging over his cock, making his toes curl. “This,” he murmurs, “is a better use for your mouth.”

 

 _Really good answer_ , Yukimura dazedly thinks, wondering if there's any better way to praise Sanada for that other than groaning low in his throat and eagerly lurching forward to swallow more of him again with a messy, needy suck. The way Sanada _throbs_ against his tongue makes him pant raggedly through his nose, and there's no help for the way his hand snakes down to his own cock, squeezing hard to try and make _sure_ he doesn't come yet. Fuck it, though, because easier said than done when Sanada apparently really, _really_ likes fucking his mouth, and Yukimura can't help but revel in the need and easy strength in those hands. 

 

Sanada had been _hoping_ he was going to last a little bit longer, this time.

 

Apparently that’s a pipe dream when he’s with Yukimura--he can already feel his balls drawing up, tight under Yukimura’s eager, drooling mouth. One more look down at that messy face, and god, is Yukimura _touching himself?_

 

Sanada’s startled noise is less of a groan, more of a shout, and he comes hard across Yukimura’s tongue, hands fisted tightly into his hair as he thrusts a few times, ragged, uneven, desperate.

 

Yeah, it's basically a pipe dream to imagine _anything_ not happening fast at this point--and that goes for both of them. Yukimura chokes on a whimper, swallowing everything he can and _still_ ends up missing a bit. His mind is on other things, like how he can't help but slump over his own hand, and how it only takes another _squeeze_ before he's lost and coming over his own fist, dripping onto his own thighs. He leans back against Sanada's hands until he's given more leeway to pull back, panting and wiping at his mouth as he shivers, and--well, that's _one way_ to give a hell of a first blow job, he supposes. "Now," he rasps, "you can fall over. Or whatever."

 

Sanada slides down to the stone, curling his arms limply over Yukimura’s shoulders. He buries his face in Yukimura’s shoulder, inhaling deeply as his heartbeat tries to return to normal. “I think,” he says, voice hoarse, “my new favorite thing is having your mouth. I hope that’s fine.”

 

Yukimura gives Sanada's back a languid, half-hearted pat as he flops backwards and drags Sanada with him. "Very fine. I don't have a gag reflex anymore, which makes for tons of enjoyment all-around, and you taste good. At _least_ fuck me once, though, to see if you like that more or not." 

 

Sanada blinks slowly, and nods, though his head cocks to one side. “Is this not fucking? Does it have to be a certain way? Most of what I know comes from Saikaku and Akinari.”

 

"Ahhh, well--yes, this _is_ fucking, but I'm talking about you putting it inside me _here_." Lazily, a rather unfazed Yukimura paws around for Sanada's hand and shoves it down to the curve of his ass. "We don't have to right now. It's definitely a lot more effort than my mouth, but usually worth it."

 

“We’re going to,” Sanada assures him through a dry mouth. “That sounds….I definitely want to do that.”

 

He swallows, and asks, “Are you going to be the wakashu, then? I figured since you were more...well…”

 

For five seconds, Yukimura wishes Sanada would be less of a samurai. "…We're going to do whatever we want, perhaps with janken at this rate," he says, deadpan. "Though I am curious now, what _am_ I more of?" 

 

Sanada shrugs, reaching out to tug a lock of Yukimura’s hair. “Beautiful,” he says honestly, without pretense.

 

Forgiven instantly. That would have been a phone-hugging moment. "…You're sweet. But for what it's worth," Yukimura says, still fairly amused, "I have been inside guys that think themselves _very_ masculine. None so much as you, but don't consider yourself exempt." 

 

Sanada’s face turns into something of a frown instantly. “I don’t like hearing about other men,” he mutters. Though he doesn’t mind hearing about Yukimura being _inside_ , that sounds rather strangely good, maybe. “I didn’t mean an insult by it. That’s just how it’s done.”

 

And here Yukimura had briefly considered (except not really) telling Sanada he's the only guy he's ever let actually come in his mouth because everyone else tastes gross. Well, Shiraishi that _one time_ , but being drunk is a little different. Oh well, no amusing sex stories for him. "I'm not offended, relax." It's not even worth arguing about, not when he _wants_ Sanada to fuck him senseless, anyway. "Just so you know, though, that's how _samurai_ do it, not…most people."

 

Sanada stretches out, pulling Yukimura down on top of him and nuzzling into his hair. “How do most people do it?” he asks, steeling himself to hear stories about other people. “I could look online, but I’d rather hear from you about what you like.”

 

That's another good answer. Sanada is full of them tonight, which is very, very nice. "Well, I'm not _every_ person," Yukimura sighs, stretching out long and lean and content as he half-buries his face into Sanada's neck. "I just…mmnn, it really depends. Like I've told you before, I haven't been with that many people. Just--how pretty someone is doesn't determine whether they're taking it or sticking it in someone. Case and point: please remember that you walked in on me grinding Niou's face into the dirt."

 

Sanada makes a face. It’s less disturbing when it’s referencing Niou, for some reason. “He’s a weird one, though,” he points out. “I figured to count him as an outlier in just about anything a while ago. What do you like, though? I want to know that I’m going to make you happy, and...I mean, I bet it’s pretty obvious by now that I’m not very...well.” He huffs out a breath, trying to formulate his words. “I just mean that I believe strongly in the virtues of practice, and I haven’t been able to hone this skill yet, so you’re going to have to help me along.”

 

"If you think I care how long…or not…that it takes you to come, you're wrong," Yukimura bluntly says, and props his head onto folded arms to peer at Sanada. "It seems like we can both keep going at about the same pace, anyway, so it's fine." And jesus christ, there is something to be said about low stamina when it comes to blow jobs. "Honestly, Sanada, you're _going_ to make me happy. When we're actually doing it, I'll show you everything I like and it'll be good, whether you're inside of me or vice versa. Okay?" 

 

“Okay.” That’s a huge relief, and Sanada relaxes his head down to the mattress. “Just tell me if I do something wrong. You don’t need to hold back, I’m used to being corrected harshly.” He lets a hand rest on Yukimura’s back, tracing little patterns over the skin.

 

"I'll just bite you," Yukimura teases, wriggling up to press a kiss underneath Sanada's chin. "And make you draw more nice things on me. Mmnn, two tallies now." 

 

 _Make it three_ , he wants to say, but Sanada is warm and comfortable, and half a day on a plane and a hell of a lot more traveling after that catches up on him the moment he actually settles down, snuggling close.

 

He should get a Worst Boyfriendaward for that alone.

 

Or so that's what Yukimura settles upon when he wakes up, bleary-eyed and mussed. He has definitely managed to twist himself around on the bed so that he and Sanada are facing different directions (that's pretty incredible, even for him), and so he sighs, leaning his head against Sanada's leg as he idly pokes at a toe. After a month of the beds in Atobe's castle, his back aches, the scar on his lower back a particularly odd throb, and Yukimura wonders if he should bother venturing out of the cave to find where his bag got thrown last night for a painkiller or two.

 

Well, more importantly--it's the first time in awhile that he hasn't needed to pop a pill to _sleep._ Too bad the timing was awful.

 

“Mmphm.” Sanada’s face presses into the single pillow and he shoves it down harder, toes curling away. “Knock it off, Renji,” he slurs, not entirely sure yet where he is.

 

"…That's the second time now," Yukimura mutters, slowly twisting himself around and clawing back up, the mattress squeaking underneath him. "If your feet have been cheating on me with Yanagi, I'm going to find out." 

 

“Mm?” Sanada blinks, and the world resolves itself into Yukimura, a much, _much_ better sight to see upon awakening. A smile lights up his face, and he tugs him close, arms wrapping around his waist. “Good morning.”

 

"Good morning." Yukimura flops against him, burrowing himself against Sanada's chest, nuzzling his face into his neck, and ah, damn, this is nice. "Sorry for passing out on you last night. I think you're a soporific."

 

“I didn’t mind.” Sanada’s hand splays out on Yukimura’s back, slowly stroking up and down, luxuriating in the feel of bare, warm skin. “You can do that whenever you want. What did you mean about Yanagi?”

 

"I poked your foot and you muttered something about him knocking it off--does he have a _thing_ I should be worried about?" Yukimura teases, and he stretches out with a long, rumbling sigh, feeling like a cat that's being petted just right. 

 

“Kind of,” Sanada admits. “He always washes my feet. Everyone’s really. That’s right, you’ve never been to his house.”

 

"Okay." And at this rate, perhaps he never will. "Don't worry, I, ah, don't have a thing like that. Just a thing for how you play tennis."

 

“That’s probably for the best,” Sanada rumbles. “Though I thought you liked how I practice kendo, from the way you reacted to it.”

 

"Oh, that, too. And how you sing, annnd how you write my name in calligraphy, now that you've got the kanji right." Yukimura props his chin up into one hand, smiling at him. "You're pretty good, all things considered."

 

Sanada takes that as the invitation he hopes it is, and leans in to give Yukimura a slow, light morning kiss. This easy intimacy--this is what he wants, what he’d never known he’d been craving. “I’ll never mess up your name again.”

 

"Mnnn, I didn't mind too much," Yukimura sighs, eyes lidding as he leans forward to lightly kiss Sanada back. "You used the same kanji that was in your name at first--which, if you're going to make a mistake…"

 

“I wouldn’t have made a mistake if your parents weren’t so strange about choosing kanji,” Sanada mutters. “Mine is spelled normally. Yours is just….” He trails off, hand coming up to brush a few stray hairs back from Yukimura’s face. “Unique.”

 

"My parents are weird, you'll become accustomed to it." Yukimura nuzzles forward against Sanada's hand, gently setting his teeth to his thumb. "My dad is actually finally back in town and everything. You'll be subjected to his presence eventually, I'm sure." 

 

“I don’t mind. You had to meet my family.” Sanada wriggles a bit closer, inhaling deeply and relishing the way Yukimura fills his senses. “We’ll have to go to Renji’s at some point. He made me promise years ago to bring anyone over if I ever…”

 

"I'm not letting him wash my feet," Yukimura immediately warns, grabbing at Sanada's shoulders as he rolls over and drags Sanada with him. "That's weird." 

 

“You have to,” Sanada says gravely, though he eagerly obliges Yukimura’s tug, making sure he doesn’t crush the smaller man to the mattress. “It’s tradition in his home, don’t shame me. Ah, you’re warm, I like it.”

 

" _What_ tradition? It's weird, and my feet are also small and ticklish and not interested," Yukimura complains, and he firmly winds his arms around Sanada's back, squeezing tight. "You're like a furnace."

 

“You’ve been away from Japan too long. You have to obey traditions.” Sanada pauses, then adds, “But you don’t have to let him wash your feet in the onsen. That’s just him being weird.”

 

"Don't like onsens, anyway. They make me lightheaded." Yukimura sniffs and flops his head back onto the pillow. "Let's just elope, he doesn't need to be a part of this."

 

Sanada opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it again, deciding he really doesn’t care _that_ much. “Elope? We’re too young to get married.”

 

"It's a joke. Though _you're_ the one that said I'd be a fashionable bride."

 

Sanada ducks his head, nudging his nose against Yukimura’s chest. Softly, not meeting his eyes, he says, “I didn’t say no.”

 

Ah. Yukimura's face flushes hot in spite of himself, and he kind of grabs at Sanada's head, shoving his face more firmly down into his chest so he doesn't have to look at him just then. "Noted. And I'm still not letting him wash my feet."

 

“With all we put up with from you,” Sanada mumbles, “you can at least let my good friend do that. It isn’t like he takes pictures or touches himself, he’s just a bit enthusiastic.”

 

"'We'? Who's _we?_ No one else has to put up with me but you now," Yukimura huffs, drawing a leg up a bit to poke Sanada in the shin. 

 

Sanada bites gently, leaving a slight red mark on Yukimura’s pale chest. “The rest of the tennis team will have to, because you’re going to be on it.”

 

 _So you say_ , Yukimura thinks, but the more he thinks about it, the more it seems inevitable; the more he _wants_ it to be inevitable. "…nothing to put up with if I win everything," he mumbles, giving Sanada's hair a tug. 

 

“There’s still your personality to deal with.” Sanada starts moving a bit, rubbing slowly against the length of Yukimura’s body. “Very hard to deal with,” he assures, mouthing a kiss to one shoulder, a leg sliding between Yukimura’s thighs.

 

"Hmm? But you said they all thought I was cool," Yukimura sighs out, wriggling a little bit underneath the stretch of Sanada's body, his fingers dragging down and kneading slowly against Sanada's shoulders. "Maybe it's just you that finds me so unpleasant. Are you sure you'll be able to keep me in check, _captain?_ " 

 

Sanada’s brow furrows. “Not sure, when you do things like that,” he rumbles, hands sliding down to the outside of Yukimura’s thighs to _squeeze_. “Maybe we should try what you were talking about yesterday and see if that helps my...resolve.”

 

 _Yes good immediately._ Yukimura is starting to become very fond of this side of Sanada that apparently is _very interested_ in having his hands on him and his dick in him. "I'm all about strengthening your resolve." And all about enjoying the way Sanada's back muscles flex underneath the scrape of nails when he digs them in.

 

That alone is enough to make his cock fill, rubbing hard and thick against the inside of Yukimura’s thigh. The skin there is soft, warm, and so intimate that Sanada’s breath starts coming a bit faster. He’s always gotten hard quickly and inconveniently, and at least this time it’s convenient. Yukimura’s still soft, but growing, and Sanada likes the feel of that just as much, he finds. Eyes locked on Yukimura’s, he takes one of the other man’s hands, bringing it down between his legs. “You made me this way,” he breathes. “So fast, see?”

 

That makes Yukimura strangle a groan, his own hips twitching up at the feel of Sanada already so hot and hard within his hand. "Yeah," he rasps, eyes fluttering a little, fingers curling around Sanada's cock, squeezing tight. "I'm rather proud of that, not gonna lie." Sanada feels good in his hand, heavy and thick and enough to make him shiver, and his mind is already thinking about how that's going to feel _inside_. 

 

“Every time.” He can admit that, now that they’re like this, curled up together and moving slow, skin sliding across skin. “For _months_ , damn you.” How many times had he barely made it home, with his books held in front of him, before bolting for the bathroom? How many times had he been forced to use the school bathroom, trying desperately to squeeze his balls and glare down, threatening it under his breath?

 

That’s really not important anymore.

 

Now, he has Yukimura wriggling under him, squeezing, and he breathes in and out, slow and eager. “In Saikaku,” he murmurs, bending his head to nip gently at Yukimura’s neck, “only nanshoku do it like this. I didn’t think you’d want to.”

 

"Stop being such a samurai for five seconds and go back to the part about how I apparently made you hard every day for months," Yukimura mutters, smirking as he tugs at Sanada's hair, dragging his mouth to another spot on his throat in eager encouragement. "Which _means_ it was before you even liked me." He wriggles again, shifting to get his thighs around Sanada's hips instead, and that first slides of their cocks against one another is enough to make his breath catch. "Sounds like I'm your type." 

 

“You should take responsibility for that,” Sanada groans, fingers digging into Yukimura’s thighs. If he can’t put calligraphy on them yet, he can at least mark them up this way. “Before that, I didn’t have a type.” Not to say that he’d never had _urges_ , but there hadn’t been anything like _this_. 

 

He moves slightly, angling his hips down, cock sliding down between Yukimura’s thighs to drag over the cleft of his ass. _God_.

 

Ah, _fuck_ , but that makes Yukimura's whole body _twitch_ , and his next breath is even more ragged, his fingers clutching hard enough at Sanada's back for a moment to leave little half-moon indentations. It's not even the way Sanada's cock slides against him as much as it is the way his hands feel, the way his fingers already are leaving bruises without _trying_. "You had a type, don't lie," he pants out, scratching his nails down Sanada's back, digging one hand into the curve of his ass to yank him _closer_. "It's pretty, bitchy tennis players that don't listen to a word you say. You just had to _realize_ it."  

 

“Never met any before,” Sanada grunts. It’s true, what Yukimura says, though he hadn’t _known_ \--the second that boy had walked up to him in the music classroom, really, he’d _known_. “Nnh, I think--I think we need something,” he groans, trying not to rut too obviously against Yukimura’s ass and failing miserably. “I have--hold on, I’ll get it.”

 

He rolls off with an immense effort, rolling to the side and opening a small locked case, rifling through granola bars, waterproof matches, emergency blankets, a satellite phone, packaged fish hooks, and other safety features in the first drawer, removing it and picking up a small bottle. “You’ll know better than I would,” he admits, and hands it over. “Is this any good for what you need? I bought it on amazon.”

 

Yukimura is going to marry him. It would have taken a _lot_ of effort to get up and go through his bag, this is _much_ easier. "You're good at this," he sighs out, letting his head loll back even as he pops open the top of the bottle. "You wanna finger me? Or is doing it myself part of me taking responsibility for all the times you had to jerk off after practice?" 

 

Sanada’s answering smile is shaky at best, and he settles back into seiza without thinking about it. “I think,” he says slowly, even _imagining_ it making him so hard he has to wrap a hand around his cock and _squeeze_ , “that if I do it, I won’t last long enough to get in. Sorry.”

 

That's a good reason if Yukimura's ever heard one. He shivers, nodding, slicking his fingers up with the lube, and he's probably _never_ been this shaky about sliding a hand down, all after wriggling around to get the best angle. "That's fine," he breathes, toes curling when he lets one long finger sink inside, and bites back the noise that wells in his throat. He's _not_ as used to this as Sanada might believe, but trying to think of a another time when he's wanted someone's cock inside of him so badly is impossible. "I'll just-- _ah_ \--imagine it's you instead." 

 

Sanada has to squeeze _harder_.

 

He lets out a long, shuddering breath, feeling the liquid leaking freely down the underside of his cock and his fingers. His eyes are locked between Yukimura’s legs, and he bites his lip, trying not to just lose control immediately. “It’s okay, like this?” he asks, voice hushed. “You don’t need to...I don’t know, clean it out or something? That’s probably a stupid question.”

 

"Valid enough, but I _swear_ being a vegetarian has advantages," Yukimura says on a laugh, his wrist twisting a little when he pulls his hand back to just get it over with and slide a second finger inside, no matter how his body wants to twinge and point out _hey, you don't do this very often, rolling around with Atobe once or twice a few weeks ago so doesn't count._ He huffs and flops his head back, the muscles in his thighs bunching briefly before he wills himself to relax and think about how Sanada's fingers would feel instead, how obscene it is that Sanada can't even _do it_ because he's too afraid he'll come--"I brought condoms, if you want one," he breathlessly adds. "But I'd much rather _really_ feel you inside."

 

Sanada’s cock finally wilts slightly, the confusion so strong it’s enough to counteract the sight of Yukimura with his fingers buried in his ass, if only just for a moment. “I--why the hell would we need one of those?” he asks, alarmed. “I can _see_ that you’re not a woman!” Damn, looking is enough to make that sudden self-control a thing of the past already.

 

Yukimura stretches out a long leg to kick him in the knee. "Because it's _cleaner_ and _safer_ but I can see you're a rebel that doesn't care," he snarks, heaving out a breath as he pulls his hand free, wiping it on a blanket before he snatches the bottle of lube up again. "Get over here, put some of this on your cock already, and _get in me_ , or I'll take care of myself _without you._ " 

 

That sounds like a lot of sudden hostility, but it makes Sanada’s cock hard, so he’s not sure he cares.

 

He moves, slicking himself up--ah, yes, this is definitely the right stuff judging by the way it feels--and hesitates before grabbing Yukimura. He wants to ask _how_ , but, reaching out to still Yukimura’s hand, but that sounds so pathetic, as if he doesn’t even know that much. If he’s going by the illustrations…

 

His hand comes out, firm on Yukimura’s waist as he flips the other boy over onto his hands and knees before sliding up behind him. “Like this?” he asks, breath coming quickly as he bends, slick cock sliding up the cleft of his ass again before he grabs it. “Hold on, I’ll get it in. Here?”

 

He should be more annoyed than hard, Yukimura thinks, because he _really_ doesn't like being facedown as a general rule, and Sanada could have _asked_. Yukimura growls a little underneath his breath, which probably sounds more like a purr than anything, and raises up onto his elbows before just flopping down with a huff. "Y-yes, right _there_ \--" he hisses, twisting his head back. Damn it, but Sanada shouldn't look so _good_ behind him like that, and it shouldn't make him squirm so much to feel how slick and hard Sanada's cock is. "Come on, Sanada-buchou, you've got _one job."_ So sue him, he can't keep his mouth shut.

 

“Shut up,” Sanada growls. It’s not as easy as he’d thought to take himself in hand, angling around until he finds an area with a bit of _give_ —

 

The head sinks inside, and Sanada lets out a startled grunt as he thrusts in deep without meaning to, almost half of his length in the first long slide. His eyes roll back as the tightest, hottest, wettest thing he can remember (not that he’s thinking much right now) engulfs him, and the sound he lets out is barely human before he starts to move faster than he’d intended.

 

Ah, well. If Yukimura hates it, he’ll stop.

 

Yukimura thinks he probably curses in French, because fuck Japanese, it's not good enough for things like this. 

 

Sanada needs to learn about _limits_ , which are honestly easier thought about than _taught_ when his body wants to sag and kind of give in, and Yukimura shudders with the effort it takes to twist back,  grabbing Sanada's hair, kissing him hard and insistent as he hauls him down. "Slow down, or you're not even going to be able to _enjoy this_ ," Yukimura breathes, sinking back down shakily. It's one thing having Sanada in his mouth, something else to have him deep inside him like this, and his knees already feel weak and wobbly when Sanada isn't even entirely _in_. " _I_ want to get off, too, you know."

 

“Sorry.” The breathless plea is all he can spare when everything is reduced to that _one place_ connecting them, to the feel of Yukimura tight and hot around his cock, milking him for all he’s worth.

 

Too late, some of his meditation techniques, some of that _discipline_ comes back to him, and Sanada breathes in, stilling his body. It takes longer than it has since he was tiny, but in comes, that confidence, that stillness. “Right,” he says, breathing shallow and labored, and he gives an experimental slow roll of his hips, ending all the way inside. “Tell me how to do it if you hate it.”

 

"Ahh, god--" _That_ ends up as a breathy whimper before Yukimura can help himself, because Sanada's cock buried inside of him like _that_ is as good as he expected it to be, no matter how tense and hot it all is, no matter how it threatens to pick away at his sanity. He shudders, releasing Sanada's hair and flopping back down face first, rubbing his cheek down into the pillow. " _That_ was good," he groans, settling more securely onto his knees to arch his back and wriggle back. It still aches, still makes him twitch and shiver, but that needs to happen _more_ rather than less. "J-just--like that again, Genichirou--"

 

No, that’s not fair.

 

Sanada lurches forward, groaning as he feels his hips nestle against Yukimura’s--that wasn’t as slow, he admits, but it’s still _sort_ _of_ the same motion, and he really _can’t_ be blamed for going a bit faster at this point. His breath is heavy, his motions quick, and he groans, “You know what that _does_.”

 

Yukimura does a poor job of keeping his voice down that time, and it's more a breathy, whiny thing than anything when he claws a hand backwards, grabbing for _any_ part of Sanada that he can reach to haul him in closer, _deeper still_ even when he _knows_ Sanada is bottomed out inside of him and fuck, that's _good,_ being able to feel him pulse inside of him. "Yeah," he rasps out, shuddering as his own cock throbs, drips onto the mattress. "I _know_. Can't help it when you feel so good."

 

Sanada responds to the tug, grinding his hips forwards against Yukimura, breath coming fast and hard with every thrust. He’s getting the hang of this now, moving the way Yukimura _likes_ , rolling his hips forward with every urgent thrust. “Seiichi,” he breathes, leaning forward to mouth hot, urgent, sloppy kisses to the other boy’s neck, “you can be loud. There’s no one--hhnnn—-here—”

 

Ahhh, fuck, he's done for. 

 

Sanada _is_ good at this, naturally, even if he's a little unpracticed, and Yukimura thanks every fantasy he's had for the past month (longer) for being _right_. It's the athleticism in every movement he makes, the easy strength in every grab and tug and _grind_ , and Yukimura sobs out a groan into the pillow the moment Sanada's cock presses deep and just _right_ and fuck, _fuck_ , there's a reason why he wanted this so badly because coming like _this_ is a hell of a lot different than getting off any other way. 

 

 _This_ is the kind of release he wants, because _nothing_ feels as good as shuddering from head to toe, coming without a single touch to his cock, whining out Sanada's name and that is probably some breathy praise in French (English? who knows) in there, too, albeit muffled into the pillow as he just _melts_ into a boneless heap. 

 

Sanada has a heart-stopping moment of confusion, then it doesn’t _matter_. Whether it’s right or wrong, he loses himself in the next instant, deep inside, and _how_ could he have known that the sound of Yukimura getting off would go straight to his very core like that?

 

It’s as deep inside as he can get when he finally slumps over, every part of him quivering, trembling, muscles tight and taut. He stays there for too long, pulsing in deep, and he’s not sure he’s _ever_ come so hard in his life.

 

It’s several long breaths before he can move. He’s still, the sweat cooling on his back, every movement feeling like far too much effort, until it becomes more effort _not_ to move. Slowly, he untangles himself, pulling back and flopping down onto the mattress. “Ah.”

 

Yukimura makes a noncommittal sound into the pillow, and makes absolutely no attempt to move other than to slightly curl onto his side with a long, drawn-out shiver. _That_ feels weird, and good, in a way that makes him squirm. When is the last time he actually had someone come inside him?  "Nhn." He slowly inches over, butting his face into Sanada's shoulder. "Good?" Language check--was that Japanese? Yes. Good job, Seiichi, your neurons are firing correctly again.

 

Sanada laughs, more relaxed than he’s ever remembered being. “Yes, good. Good?” He shouldn’t be nervous, not when Yukimura’s twitching and squirming like that. “Does it hurt?”

 

"Not really," Yukimura sighs out, nuzzling his face up into Sanada's neck as he flops an arm over his chest. "Mmnn, sore. Sticky. Mostly good." 

 

“Want to wash off?” Sanada rumbles, and tugs Yukimura up on top of him. Then he feels a trickle of wetness onto his thigh, and his face flushes, even as his cock twitches in a game attempt to be useful again so soon. “I mean, uh, you’re a little…” _Messy_.

 

"Whose fault is that, huh, _Genichirou_?" Yukimura breathes, sitting up a little with his hands braced against Sanada's chest. Ah, god, that does feel _weird_. "You come a _lot_." 

 

“Don’t really have much to compare it to. Besides you,” Sanada adds, and drags a hand experimentally across the sticky trails on Yukimura’s chest and belly. Ah. That’s definitely not as much as he does. “Is that all right?”

 

"Mm, it's fine. Just noticing." That's about as much energy as he has for the moment, and Yukimura slides back down on top of his chest in a slow, lazy flop. "Japanese symbol of virility if I've ever seen one." 

 

“That’s an embarrassing thing to say.” Sanada doesn’t _hate_ it, if he’s being honest. “Right, critique my performance. I know you must be dying to.”

 

Yukimura blinks up at him slowly. "I came harder than I have in my entire life and my legs are still tingly. Good job, captain."

 

A tingle that has nothing to do with the relaxation in his bones goes through Sanada, and his hands tighten on Yukimura’s waist. “When you say things like that,” he murmurs, “it makes me want to take you again.”

 

That's a very nice little shiver that goes up his spine. "I'm okay with this. Oh, one thing, though; less a critique, more a preference," Yukimura quickly adds, sitting up with a huff of effort. "You made it good, but for future reference, I'm not the biggest fan of doing it while I'm facedown. Once in awhile is fine, but…" 

 

“Mm. Then how?” Sanada asks. “That’s the only way I’ve ever seen it done in the illustrations and such. How do you like it?”

 

 _What porn have you been looking at_ is on the tip of Yukimura's tongue, but actually, he's pretty sure he doesn't want to know. "Mmn, being in your lap like this is just fine," he sighs, lazily wriggling back a few more inches. "It makes it feel like you're even deeper inside of me." 

 

Sanada’s eyes lid, and his hands come up to Yukimura’s waist, stroking gently up and down. “Good,” he murmurs. “That sounds...is it all right, with you up on top?” he asks, slightly hesitant. “I don’t want to make you do all the work, you’re not….you’re not a nanshoku.”

 

"…I _like_ doing a lot of the work," Yukimura says, amused no matter how exasperated he can't help but feel. "Genichirou--I don't know what a nanshoku is or whatever other samurai weirdness you have in your head, but I want to enjoy _this_ \--" He reaches back, his fingers sliding along the length of Sanada's cock, slow and deliberate, "--however the hell I want. It's mine now." 

 

Sanada supposes he should probably protest.

 

Probably.

 

Except his cock is hard and aching already in Yukimura’s hand, and this isn’t _really_ anything like Saikaku anyway, and instead he just nods. “Yours,” he whispers, hands tightening. “I’m...glad you enjoy it.” Is that the right thing to say?

 

Yeah, good. Perfect response to his favorite button-push. "You should be. I don't _normally_ like having someone inside of me at all, you know," Yukimura breathes, leaning in to press a quick, wet kiss to the corner of Sanada's mouth as he wriggles back, sucking in a breath when the head of Sanada's cock catches against his hole. Sore, but that's fine, because it makes everything sort of pleasantly _achy_. 

 

Sanada bites down hard on his lip, groaning low in his chest. “You’re still…” He shifts, rubbing the head of his cock over that swollen hole. “M-messy.” 

 

Yeah, that’s a kink he’s developed _fast_ , apparently. “Is--is it okay to do it like that?”

 

"Mmhm. It's still nice and slick in there, isn't it?" Yukimura's fingers squeeze around Sanada's cock, and he rocks back, arching his back when he finally lets the head inside, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he wriggles _down_. "Feel it?" he pants out, chest heaving, and shit, already Sanada feels like a lot _more_ this way. His hands slide up Sanada's chest, scrabbling a little for support as he sinks down, and god, it's not _fair_ how his own cock already aches. "You'll make me even messier soon, won't you?" 

 

Sanada nods so fast his head is a bit dizzy, hands tightening hard on Yukimura’s waist, trying not to just yank him _down_. He’s had his turn, he reminds himself, and now Yukimura can have him however he wants--and how he wants it, apparently, is to sink down, with Sanada able to feel every drop of slickness running out of him. “You’ll be...full,” he breathes, cock twitching hard up into Yukimura’s body. “Of me.”

 

Yukimura nods, a little mindless, a lot desperate, and that's all it takes to convince him to slide down the rest of the way, his breath hitching on a whimper when their hips are flush and he's full enough that he _aches_ , even cramps a little at this angle. Leaning back makes it easier to catch his breath, and he rakes his sweaty bangs out of his face as he rolls his hips, thigh muscles bunching with every movement. "For the rest of the time I'm here--maybe even _after_ ," he rasps, "I'm going to be feeling you inside me."

 

 _That_ goes straight to his cock just as well as everything else, and Sanada groans. It’s hard to care now whether Yukimura wants him to or no, not when he’s so _deep_ , and he snaps his hips up the next time Yukimura comes down, meeting him in the middle with a soft _slap_. “How does it feel?” he asks, looking up into Yukimura’s lidded eyes. “Tell me….please…”

 

That takes the breath right out of him, and Yukimura's chest heaves, his voice breaking at the edges with the next groan he exhales. " _Perfect_ \--l-like…ahh…" Hard to think and talk (especially in a not-so-native tongue) when Sanada thrusts up into him like that, and Yukimura swallows hard, swaying forward and grinding _down_ , every muscle drawing taut when he just _thinks_ about how it's Sanada's cock in him, Sanada fucking him again, Sanada wanting him to tell him how fucking good it is. "Almost--too much, you're so deep I can't breathe--"

 

Sanada leans up, reaching up for Yukimura’s hair and tangling his hands in it, nails raking over his scalp as he tugs the other man down. “You can do it in English,” he says, voice a husky, raspy thing as he slides up into the other boy over and over again. Yukimura’s still so _tight_ , though it isn’t as if he has anything to compare it to, and he can’t help but let out noises, reaching between them to paw at Yukimura’s toned chest. “I’ll understand.” Maybe not the words, but he’ll understand the tone, and he likes it when Yukimura talks in other languages anyway.

 

"Fuck," Yukimura thinks he ends up gasping. It's kind of _stupid_ that it makes him even harder to hear that from Sanada's mouth, but god, he can't _help_ but like it, not when his own hands claw up Sanada's chest, scratching and marking with every wriggle of his hips down Sanada's cock and frantic kiss that he manages to place on Sanada's lips.

 

He probably goes on a tangent about how _fuck you feel so good no one else's cock ever has and you're perfect and mine mine mine_ , but it's irrelevant when he's mostly breathless and whiny and finding out that Sanada likes having his nipples scratched and _pinched_. "Want you to _really_ mess me up," he breathes, in Japanese again, because he's _going_ to get what he wants. "Please, Genichirou--"

 

Sanada can’t remember his English, and only realizes belatedly that Yukimura’s speaking Japanese. That doesn’t matter, because as soon as Yukimura starts twisting and pulling on his nipples all thoughts of _words_ and _anything_ go out the window. 

 

He positively _writhes_ under Yukimura, a full-body shudder going through him with every cruel pinch, and even if it’s nothing he’d ever _considered_ before, he can’t help but realize it’s something he likes. There’s little choice, when every movement sends sparks shooting through him, robbing him of breath, and he lurches up hard into Yukimura’s body, over and over, rough and mindless. “Seiichi…. _Seiichi_ ….”

 

When he comes this time, Yukimura is _fairly_ certain he's going to die. Or at least, come close to it, what with how he can't catch his breath, with how he twitches and trembles to his very core as he spills over Sanada's stomach, and god, there's no help in even trying to squirm _away_ from the aching intensity of it, because Sanada is buried so deeply inside of him that his eyes roll back and he _has_ to reach back to steady a hand against one of Sanada's thighs or else he's just going to melt and turn to goo. 

 

Yukimura can just _feel_ how Sanada is leaking inside of him, too, making everything even slicker and messier and ah, that makes him shudder anew. _This_ is how he dies. Pretty good way to go, if anyone asks.

 

The last twinges of pain from his chest ache worse once they stop, somehow, and Sanada feels the edge approaching, feels it in every part of himself as he drives up again and again--ah, but Yukimura looks _done_ , he looks _exhausted_ , and Sanada forces himself to still. His breath is heavy, urgent, and he probably sounds like a straining animal. “Can,” he tries, and his voice cracks and breaks. “Should I stop? Don’t want to hurt you.” Maybe he can pull out and finish quickly in his hand, that would be good enough.

 

"If you don't finish in me, I'm going to fucking kill you," Yukimura groans, no matter the effort it takes to actually _say that._ He sways a little, his thumb dragging over an obviously sore nipple before he twists again, his own breath catching in his throat. "Hurry _up_ , Genichirou. Use me like I know you want to."

 

Good enough.

 

It’s not as good as Yukimura looking excited and awake, but Sanada will take it when he’s this close, when he’s this hard, when he has Yukimura in his ear breathing, _use me_ and twisting his nipple, and…

 

Fortunately, it doesn’t take long at all. Half a dozen rough, unsteady thrusts, and he’s spilling inside with a desperate grunting noise, slamming his hips up against Yukimura’s, hands digging into those smooth, pale thighs, now spotted with bruises. 

 

If nothing else, he _loves_ this position for how easy it is to flop down when he’s spent, replete and delighted, feeling more sated than he can ever remember being in his life. He tries for a sentence, but abandons it after a few unsuccessful tries, slumping back.

 

Not much better off, Yukimura flops forward into Sanada's chest, his face shoving its way into Sanada's neck to breath in deep. He aches _everywhere_ now, can feel the mess of everything leaking out around Sanada's softening cock, and he groans, not wanting to move and deal with that but _ugh_ , it's just not as fun when they aren't in the heat of the moment. Ah well. "You smell _way_ too good after sex," he mutters, mouthing a kiss against Sanada's neck. "Not allowed."

 

Sanada grunts. That’s about what he can manage now, as the world slowly revolves around him, narrowed yet infinite, and his breath is still labored. He tries again to speak, and gives up. Slightly, he moves, letting his cock slip out, and has to blink at the rush of fluid against it. “Ah.” That’s….new.

 

"Why condoms are _great_ if you're in a hurry," Yukimura deadpans, and just flops his head down, not moving anymore. There's no hope for him. "Good thing we aren't right now." 

 

Sanada’s hand curls around, dipping down to let one of his fingers trace over the swollen, leaking hole. “I kind of like it,” he admits. “Might be different if it was me, though. I can wash you, if you want to get up.”

 

Yukimura twitches before turning his initial jerk away into a squirm with some effort. "Later. Current status is overstimulated," he bemoans, rolling slightly to the side.

 

“Sorry.” Sanada lets his hand drop down to the mattress, just as happy with that. “I’ll learn.”

 

"Is fine." Gnawing slowly on Sanada's shoulder is also pretty much fine when he starts to relax all over again. "Really good, also. Keeping you."

 

Sanada starts to argue about who’s doing the keeping, but gives it up. Maybe he doesn’t so much mind being kept, if it’s by Yukimura Seiichi. “Yeah. Okay.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

**To: Keikei**

**[you w i s h you could have a piece of him]**

 

God help him, but there's no way he can't brag. He's allowed to, especially after the six months when Atobe sent him text messages every hour on the hour, bragging about _his_ boyfriend and his cheekbones. It's probably stupid to be _invested_ , because there's still a sense of disbelief that this all happened, that _anything_ good happened for once, and yet, Yukimura still gives himself the time to admire the half dozen hickeys littered along Sanada's neck and shoulders.

 

**To: Keikei**

**[but you can't because he's mine]**

 

Yukimura opens the browser on his phone again after waiting a moment and getting nothing in return (rude), and gives himself another reminder while looking at the ATP world rankings that the highest rank for _anyone_ under 20 is #212, and that even Novak didn't go pro until he was 16. He has at _least_ another year.

 

That doesn't make it any less weird to look at the junior rankings, though, and not see his name at all, let alone not at the very top.

 

For not the first time, there's a stabbing, niggling fear of _if I don't do this with my life, what else am I going to do_ , which Yukimura tries to suffocate by shoving his face down into the futon. The slow crash of ocean waves is easily audible, and that has done _something_ for his nerves. Maybe he'll just never go home, because the sound of the ocean isn't exactly something he can hear from his bedroom.

 

**To: Keikei**

**[stop hiding from me you swine, your silence will not help you avoid our inevitable doubles match]**

 

**[unless you are busy doing your tezuka creature in which you are excused]**

 

**[but not for long because you are going to listen to me talk about my boyfriend]**

 

**[dammit keigo i hope MY captain beats YOUR scrawny captain ass next year]**

 

When Yukimura’s phone finally does beep, it isn’t Atobe, but an email.

 

**To: Seichi Yukimura**

 

Mr. Yukimura,

 

You might not remember me after the past couple years of silence, but I attended several of your games while you were still on the Juniors circuit in England with the LTA. Recently, I was contacted by an overseas associate who happened to see one of your practice games, and I became hopeful that your obvious talent would reemerge. I flew out to Japan, but was disappointed not to see you play in Nationals.

 

If you continue to be dedicated to tennis, I’d like to let you know that my agency remains open to the idea of going forward with your sponsorship. However, we can only take on youth that is not just talented, but dedicated. Please update me regarding your progress this year. In particular, I’d like to see you win Nationals next year. I’ll make it a date to attend.

 

Sincerely,

 

Robert A. Packerson

LTA and USTA Scout and Consultant

 

That takes a few readings over before it clicks.

 

There's a compulsion to reply to it immediately, to say _yes yes yes I'm still playing, I was at Wimbledon this summer playing with someone that's already gone pro, why weren't you THERE instead, what's the point in waiting another year just sponsor me now I'm more than good enough--_

 

Yukimura rolls onto his back, sets his phone down, and grabs up a pillow to pull it over his face in the event he feels the need to screech into something. He will, inevitably. 

 

Sanada wakes slowly, rolling onto his side, and blinks sleepily to clear his vision. “Mm. I went back to sleep, I guess.” 

 

He throws an arm over Yukimura’s waist, then frowns at the tension there. “Are you all right?”

 

"I'm great," is the muffled reply before Yukimura sighs and tugs the pillow off again, flopping it onto the floor. "Can you do something for me?" 

 

“Anything.” He probably shouldn’t answer so fast, but...ah, well. With the way Yukimura’s looking at him, there’s little help.

 

He _almost_ feels bad about taking advantage of Sanada for this, but…not really, not when that e-mail is sitting in his inbox and he remembers very clearly what Atobe said about forcing himself to commit. It worked well for talking with Shiraishi, didn't it? "Make me your vice captain." 

 

That’s….unexpected. Sanada sits up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, and takes in a breath. “Tell me you care about the team. Make me believe it.”

 

Yukimura twists onto his side to better peer up at him. "I'm--" He exhales, annoyed. "I'm not saying I'm going to be perfect, but I _do_ care about us winning and about making that happen. You don't have to say yes. I just…I want a reason to stick around other than 'my boyfriend is the hot tennis club captain.'" More like he _needs_ a reason, because he's not entirely sure actually playing on the team is going to make him any better, but--if they want to see him win at Nationals, _fine_.

 

Sanada settles back, frowning. “You could want to stick around because you like tennis,” he says, trying to think. “As much as I...well, as much as I like you, you haven’t shown too much responsibility.”

 

"If I didn't love tennis, I'd be dead." It's the first time he's said that to anyone other than Atobe, far from the first time he's remembered that dying seemed like a viable option on many different occasions, and Yukimura tries, desperately, not to give into the urge to just say _forget it, forget I ever asked_ because that's just going to prove every point that Sanada has ever thought about him, that Sanada _still_ obviously thinks about him. "I've never _been_ on a team before moving back here," he adds, pushing himself up onto an elbow. "I've never seen the point, and I just--you're not going to like this, but it's the truth: I don't think just playing for Rikkai can help me improve much. That's why I wasn't sure I wanted to stick around, but if I'm vice captain, and have to help everyone _else_ , maybe I can pick apart my own flaws better. And yours. And everyone's. You're not the _best_ tennis coach." 

 

Sanada raises an eyebrow, more intrigued than anything else. He thinks, turning over Yukimura late to practice, Yukimura ignoring everyone else, Yukimura stalking out and missing matches because he didn’t _want_ to come, and stands up. “Trial,” he says, and offers a hand to help him up. “Teach me something. Make me learn. Motivate me.” His eyes narrow, and he adds, “And promise me you can care about someone other than yourself, even if you don’t want to. As vice-captain, you’ll have to work with _people_ , not just rackets and balls.”

 

"I _used_ to be good with people," Yukimura mutters, taking Sanada's hand with a frown as he hauls himself up. "I had lots of friends, which I'm sure you think is a lie. Also, if you want a lesson, I can already tell you why you've never won against Kunimitsu and you're not going to like it." 

 

Sanada’s hand tightens. “Tell me now,” he demands, a lot less about coaching issues and a lot more about needing that information more than life.

 

"Ow," Yukimura complains, deadpan, though he makes no attempt to tug his hand free. "Because oddly unlike all of your meditation and training and whatever suggests, you enjoy the art of destroying your tennis opponents as quickly as possible by hitting a _lot_ of 'this should be an ace.' Which usually works, but--Kunimitsu is mostly an all-rounder, might as well be a counterpuncher, and if you make him nervous enough by dragging him into a long rally that _he_ can't kill with an ace, that's when you actually score points. And that's why Keigo has beaten him and you haven't." 

 

Oh.

 

Sanada _hates_ that the advice actually makes sense. 

 

“It’s his own fault for relying on cheap tricks when he should just properly hit the ball,” he growls, the memory of their one and only game more than enough to make the bile rise instantly in his throat. “Have you beaten him?”

 

"Shockingly, we've never played an official match against one another," Yukimura hums, his head tilting to the side. "But we played all summer together at Wimbledon, and yes, I have beaten him, recreationally."

 

“Hmph.” It’s an idea, certainly. “But your stamina is far lower than his.”

 

"It's gotten better!" Yukimura insists, folding his arms. "Also, it doesn't matter because _I know where to hit_ when it comes to lefties, which is your other problem because you avoid practicing with Niou and had a doubles partner that was exceptional against left-handed players before." 

 

That causes nothing more than a scowl, and Sanada folds his arms across his chest. As much as he hates to admit it… “Maybe,” he says grudgingly. “All right, the rest of the team. How can Niou improve?”

 

"Off of singles. He's easily distracted and ends up trying too many things if the first one doesn't work, so he needs a strategist that sticks to the basics. His boyfriend-apparent will do. Do you want me to keep going, because the whole team is full of mistakes."

 

Sanada hesitates for a moment, then digs through his box, pulling out a notebook and pencil, flipping to an open page. “Yeah. Do the whole team. I thought you weren’t paying attention to anyone but yourself, you know.”

 

Yukimura rolls his eyes, plopping back down and crossing his legs. "I might be an egomaniac, but I'm not so stupid as to not keep an eye on my competition. That seems counterproductive."

 

“You shouldn’t think of your teammates as competition,” Sanada admonishes. “You have to stop doing that. They’re your team, and were _supposed_ to be your team for an entire season now. Thinking like that is why I hadn’t considered you for the post.”

 

"…Except that they _were_ my competition when it came to actually getting a spot where I could _play_ ," Yukimura sniffs, leaning back onto one hand. "You can't fault me for that."

 

Sanada considers that for a moment, then nods. “Fair, and given. So. How can they improve? I…” He wrestles with the words for a minute. “I think you could be great at this. That’s not the problem. I’m just not sure you care, or that people would be comfortable coming up to you and asking for help.”

 

"Yanagi needs to stop only playing up to the level he assumes his opponent has, Marui and Jackal need to learn some independence of one another on the court, Yagyuu is consistent but needs more power behind his serve and it's easy to take his service games from him in singles because of it…mmn, and Akaya is easy if you just pretend to be a serve and volley player, because he hates the net." Yukimura flops onto his back. "I can be very personable if need be. And it isn't that I don't care--it's…well, it wasn't the easiest to enjoy associating with a team that spent most of its time thinking I was some scary foreigner. I know I didn't do _much_ to try and convince you otherwise once that idea got stuck in all of your heads, but I don't feel like I did _that_ much to plant the idea, either."

 

“It’s Japan,” Sanada says dryly, once he looks up from his newly-penned notes. “You don’t need to do much. You should have seen by now how easy it is to be _different_. You acted like a foreigner, and like you thought you were better than everybody. What did you think was going to happen?”

 

"Don't be an ass, I get it _now_. Too bad I'm still not good at being normal." Yukimura rolls to poke at his phone--still no new messages--and sighs again. "If you don't want me to be your vice captain, then just go ahead and tell me now to save me the aggravation later."

 

“I don’t want a vice captain who gives up easily. My grandfather told me that a child who wants to be a samurai is refused for six years before being given a chance to prove his worth.”

 

"…I have no idea what that means, but I'm not waiting around for six years to play tennis, so you can take that however you want."

 

Sanada scowls. “Fine. I’ll give you a trial period. Two weeks. If you like it and do it right, it can become permanent. If you hate it or do it wrong, you have to be Niou’s double’s partner for the rest of the year.”

 

"Oh, fuck that. Why do I have to be _his_ doubles partner if I suck? I'll be Akaya's once he graduates and make him sit at the net. _In fact_ , I'll do that anyway, because he suffers nicely."

 

“My vice captain,” Sanada says with a glare, “won’t respond to my orders with ‘Oh, fuck that.’”

 

Yukimura makes a face. Maybe being Atobe's vice captain would've been easier. Is it too late to transfer and upset Rikkai for a Nationals win? "I might behind closed doors," he grumpily says. "I'll behave in public, rest assured."

 

That, at least, turns the scowl into something more heated, more ashamed yet excited. “That’s...fine. Acceptable,” Sanada mumbles, looking away.

 

"You creep. How hard is your dick right now?"

 

“That’s not important!”

 

"I think it is. No wonder you're agreeing, _someone_ likes to be secretly bossed around by his subordinates."

 

Sanada opens his mouth to argue, and grabs Yukimura by the shoulder, fingers digging in. He _is_ hard, despite everything they’ve done, and can’t help the way his voice comes out low as he says, “You think so? Show me.”

 

"…You are _so_ easy," Yukimura sighs at him, eyebrows lifting in amusement. At least this takes his mind off of things, off of worry, and away from a dozen different kinds of anxiety. "It's going to end up being _not_ -so-secret, you know. The whole team is going to know in a heartbeat how you just end up rolling over like a pitiful dog."

 

Sanada’s always hated being insulted, always taken offense to it on a level that many would probably find excessive. 

 

Just now, he’s not entirely sure why that’s not the case.

 

His hand drops down between his legs, squeezing and rubbing at the sudden swell and tension there, and he drops his eyes to Yukimura’s cock as well. “That’s...a rude thing to say,” he manages, barely.

 

"Uh huh. Too bad you like it." Yukimura's head cocks. "Are you seriously going to get off just from me telling you how pathetic you are?" he teases, inching forward to smack Sanada's hand away. No need for it to be any _easier._ "Maybe I should grind your face into the dirt a bit so you have a sense of who is really in charge, _captain_."

 

Startled, Sanada’s hand clenches and unclenches, then fists around one of the blankets as his thighs inch further apart. His cock _aches_ with every word, and it’s hard not to squirm when Yukimura talks to him in that firm, clipped, condescending tone. “Be easier to finish if you were touching me,” he says, a bit hopefully. This is confusing, and new, but Yukimura’s treating it like something obvious, something other people do for fun, and it would hardly be his first time trying something he didn’t understand with Yukimura because it feels good.

 

"Someone has high hopes," Yukimura murmurs, a smirk on his lips as he wriggles forward, a hand sliding up Sanada's thigh in about as much approval as he allows himself to show. "If you're good, maybe," he relents, and his fingers brush over a nipple that he's _sure_ still has to be sore. Not that Sanada seems to mind much, and not that Yukimura is merciful enough to care, either, when even a tiny pinch is enough to get a reaction. "Have you thought about how it would feel for me to be inside you?" 

 

The sound that comes out of Sanada’s mouth is closer to a whimper than anything, and his back arches, the pain that shoots through his chest accompanied by a hard twitch of his already-leaking cock. “A….a little.” It had been difficult _not_ to, reading Saikaku’s intimate descriptions. “In….” He swallows, but the tolerant, indulgent look on Yukimura’s face makes him spit it out, no matter how it humiliates him. “In Saikaku, when I was studying, it was always the actor who….”

 

And it had been _so_ easy to imagine Yukimura as the wealthy patron.

 

Yukimura is certain now, a dozen times over, that he's hit the jackpot. There's a great deal of fun to be had with Sanada shoving him around, marking him up and leaving him feeling used and sated, but there's _really_ something about being able to make Sanada turn into _this_ kind of person--flushed and needy and embarrassed and very, _very_ easy to manipulate. 

 

Maybe he has a _bit_ of a thing when it comes to being able to boss bigger, stronger guys around. The way his cock aches seems to confirm it. What are regrets. "Isn't it perfect, then, that you're supposed to be one of Rikkai's best actors, too?" Yukimura's eyes gleam and an easy shove plants Sanada flat onto his back with Yukimura sliding up between his legs, his cock slick and dripping as it rubs against his hip. "I think you'd like it a lot."

 

 _They always seem to in Saikaku,_ Sanada thinks dimly, knowing that if he’d ever had the power to say no to Yukimura, he doesn’t right now. 

 

He lets himself be shoved, and even if there’s still tension in his chest, his legs, his belly, he does _try_ to play his role. 

 

That’s right, he’s an actor, isn’t he? He can play this role, become the role, and maybe that will take away the lingering nervousness.

 

With that in mind, he lets his back arch, his legs splay wider, and squeezes them around Yukimura’s hips. “And you would be my patron,” he murmurs, reaching up to tangle a hand in Yukimura’s hair. He never feels like himself when he acts, doesn’t now, but he does feel _good_ , and more relaxed than he has in months. “Just let me be of use to you.”

 

That'll do. 

 

Yukimura gives into the urge to kiss him, hard and fast even if it isn't for very long, and he nips at Sanada's lower lip when he draws back. It's _nice_ to have power in his hands like this. It feels good, because there are few things he's had control of lately, and Sanada hasn't _exactly_ been among them. 

 

That makes it a dozen times better, really, when he leans in and bites Sanada's earlobe and whispers " _Turn over_ ", fully expecting the command to be obeyed. 

 

Sanada is more than 0% sure that he’s going to come without a touch to his cock, if Yukimura keeps behaving like this. The kiss is one thing, hard and fast and _thorough_ , but the way he whispers in Sanada’s ear—

 

Sanada turns over, bringing his knees up underneath himself, letting his knees part on the mattress, toes curling into the blanket. There might be more of himself in this role than he really wants to admit, but when he can still feel the heat of Yukimura’s cock against his thigh, it’s difficult to mind too much. 

 

He knows what comes next, and settles down onto his forearms, bracing his weight there. “If you want...in another way,” he pants, startled at how aroused he actually is, “just...move me.”

 

Yukimura's hand trails down his spine, feeling every corded, trembling muscle, and _thankfully_ he doesn't have to reach far for the lube. "Are you going to come before I'm even inside you, Genichirou?" he breathes, uncapping the bottle and letting it drip down the cleft of Sanada's ass. "Not that it matters much. I'm still going to fuck you, even if you already make a mess of yourself." 

 

 _God_. 

 

Sanada’s hips jerk forward at the words, more than at the feel of slick cool wetness trailing down his ass. Dimly, he flashes back on what he knows, and what Yukimura had done. _If he can do this without shame, so can I._

 

Slowly, he reaches a trembling hand back. “Should I...get ready for you?” he asks, dipping a finger into the wetness there, and his voice is a shallow, needy thing.

 

Yukimura swallows hard, and he asks himself yet again _why this wasn't a thing months ago, what have I been doing with my life_. " _Now_ you're being a good boy," he manages, his own voice hitching a bit around the edges, and he reaches down to give his cock a slow squeeze, just to remind himself _not yet_. "Go ahead."

 

At least he’d been paying attention when Yukimura did it--very _close_ attention, if he’s being honest. A shiver goes up Sanada’s spine at those words, and he shifts, far enough to slide a finger inside.

 

Ah.

 

It’s _weird_. It reminds him uncomfortably of going to the bathroom, though he’s at least 95% certain that’s not about to happen. More than the physical sensation, which is far more odd, crampy discomfort than it is pain, the feeling that _Yukimura is watching, Yukimura is looking at me prepare myself for him_ is so obscene that Sanada can’t quite handle it.

 

When the second finger goes in, even though it’s his own hand, Sanada lets out a strangled groan and spills, Yukimura’s “ _Good boy_ ” echoing in his ears.

 

Yukimura _has_ to shut his eyes for a moment, because watching Sanada spasm and spill at his own touch is far, _far_ too much. Not that it would be _such_ a bad thing to jerk off over Sanada's ass or thighs right now, but… 

 

"I need to be inside of you." It's a breathy rasp against the back of Sanada's neck when Yukimura lurches forward and over him, planting a wet kiss there. He eases Sanada's hand away, his own cock still rubbing hard and slick against the inside of one tense, trembling thigh. "You'll learn not to make such a mess of yourself later," Yukimura promises, breath hitching when the head of his cock deliberately rubs against Sanada's hole. Maybe it'll be _easier_ because he's already come. "Until then, I'm just going to make you even more of one." 

 

 _Easier_ isn't the word, because Sanada is _still_ so slick and hot and tight that the breath is stolen out of Yukimura's lungs with that first, aching slide. His nails bite into Sanada's hips, his breath hot and ragged against Sanada's back, and Yukimura has to blink sweat out of his eyes from the effort it takes not to really just _use him_ like every muscle in his body wants to. 

 

Sanada doesn’t _breathe_.

 

He can’t remember what it is to breathe, and his eyes slide shut as he trembles, shuddering down to the mattress as he’s suddenly, inexorably _filled_ in a way unlike any he’s felt before. 

 

He lets out little noises, barely conscious of them as he ruts back, still-hard cock rubbing against the mattress with every motion. Yukimura feels huge and hot and _good_ inside, and the nails gripping his hips feel almost as good--no, that’s a lie, nothing even comes close to how good Yukimura’s cock feels inside of him.

 

 _Could we have been doing this since April?_ He thinks dazedly, and shoves himself back onto Yukimura’s cock with a ragged, urgent, “M- _more_ —”

 

Yukimura groans, biting into Sanada's shoulder as he lurches forward again, his hips rolling in long and hard until there's a slap of skin that makes his hands tighten all the more on Sanada's hips. "You're--kind of made for this, you know that?" he breathlessly taunts, dragging one hand up Sanada's back to wrap it into his hair, and rather than yank him back, he shoves Sanada down harder, holding him firmly in place to better just _take_ his next thrust. Watching every inch of his cock disappear into Sanada's body makes Yukimura _shudder_. "You're _way_ too good at taking cock for someone that's never done it before."

 

Sanada’s eyes roll back into his head, and he starts letting out little mindless grunts, taking Yukimura’s thrusts with every heated slide of his cock. There’s no reason he should be _pleased_ by that, he tries to tell himself, but damned if he isn’t, taking it like a compliment, shoving back onto every increasingly rough thrust. “Feels—good—” he mutters out, hands fisting in the blankets. 

 

It does. God, it does. It’s odd, too-large and _aching_ , and he feels as if he’s going to cramp up hard any second, but there’s something inside of him that Yukimura strikes every time, making his toes curl, reducing his voice to breathy, guttural pleading noises. “M-maybe you’re--too good at it, _fuck_ —”

 

"I know I am." It's smug without a doubt, but how can he _not be_ when he has Sanada writhing on his cock like this? His breath catches up in his chest again and Yukimura grinds forward, the next slap of his hips far from kind, shoving in as far as he can go and loving the way it nearly makes Sanada's voice break. His own pulse thrums too-fast, his cock aching, throbbing inside of the other man, and Yukimura isn't interested in warning him, or caring much about how good it feels to lose himself _inside_ Sanada with his next, hard thrust, gasping out ragged breaths against his back between wet, sloppy kisses planted along his spine, every pulse of his cock filling him more and leaving him even slicker inside.

 

Sanada isn’t prepared--but honestly, nothing could have prepared him for _this_. 

 

He feels full inside, slick, and above all, _claimed_. That’s obvious enough when he’s like this, writhing desperately and rutting back for more, sobbing and groaning for more cock, to be fucked harder, in completion when he’s finally _filled_.

 

This was no case of him waiting until Yukimura was done--Yukimura had used him, and been _done_ , and the thought would be enough to make Sanada come again if he weren’t already soaking the mattress beneath him. 

 

After, the slow pulse of Yukimura’s cock inside him is so much more obscene, so much more lewd, and Sanada has no words. He fumbles for the words from his books instead, hoping that they’re not too antiquated, that Yukimura won’t be too annoyed. “I hope I….was good enough to please you,” he says quietly, sweaty forehead pressed down to the mattress.

 

Yukimura shudders hard again, and sinks forward, draping himself over Sanada's back. In theory, he should be rolling his eyes, but mostly, hearing Sanada talk like that just makes him dizzy from his body's efforts to make his cock hard again. Jesus, they need to take a break. "More than good enough," he kind of manages to whisper, and flops slowly to the side with a labored breath. "Ahh, god, Genichirou, you're perfect." 

 

Sanada turns, hoping it’s all right to break character now, and presses a series of urgent kisses to Yukimura’s face, his lips, his neck. He mumbles something that sounds rather embarrassingly like, “I love you,” but hopefully Yukimura isn’t listening too hard.

 

Yukimura starts a little, his face hot, but for both their sakes, it's probably best if he says nothing. He rolls entirely to the side, flopping onto his back. "…I got an offer," he suddenly, quietly says, and his arms wrap up around Sanada's neck to drag him closer, clutching maybe too-tightly. "Scouts stopped contacting me after I got sick, you know? I had a dozen of them fighting over me, and I thought they actually gave a shit…but this is the first time I've heard from one in nearly two years." His voice threatens to crack. "He came here to see me play in the Nationals, and I wasn't even here."

 

Sanada pulls back slightly, and his face lights up. He cups Yukimura’s face in his hands, kisses his forehead, and says, “That’s good! An offer is good, right? You can always invite him to another of your matches, can’t you? Seiichi, that’s great news!”

 

"He doesn't care unless I can put in another year, and win at Nationals." Yukimura exhales a long breath, his expression wry as he obviously _tries_ to look as happy as Sanada expects him to be. "If I had just been here…or if he had come to see me at _Wimbledon_ , I practiced there with Kunimitsu every day."

 

“But,” Sanada counters, “if you start playing seriously again, you’ll definitely attract the attention of those who used to have their eye on you, right? Especially now that you’re in singles, and vice-captain.”

 

"I hope so." Yukimura flops his head back again. "You say that as if I haven't been playing seriously since I got out of the hospital. Ahh, I hate this." 

 

“But you haven’t been playing in _matches_ ,” Sanada points out. He plays with Yukimura’s hair, twirling a strand around one long finger. “You’re not giving up, are you? I thought this was your dream.”

 

"…Why do you think I asked you to make me vice captain? I need a push." Yukimura shuts his eyes, a smile twitching on his lips. "It just feels like I'm taking way too long. I set goals for myself, and I haven't met a single one of them. I really hate it."

 

“You’re not even sixteen yet. Federer didn’t win a tournament until he was seventeen,” Sanada says, flopping down. Now that they’re not fucking anymore, he’s starting to feel sore and slimy, especially with the sudden turn into unhappy talk.

 

"Yeah, well. I wanted to be better than that." Yukimura suddenly pushes himself up, and gives a hickey on Sanada's shoulder a poke. "Forget it, let's go take a bath or something. I know it can feel gross after awhile." 

 

Sanada nods gratefully, wincing as he stands, stretching out. “Ah…that does feel weird,” he admits, and in a few steps, slides into the little pool, sighing at the water closing over him. “It _would_ be better if it were heated,” he admits. “But at least we can get clean.”

 

"It'll do," Yukimura says with a shiver as he slides in, shutting up before his voice can hit a higher pitch from the shock of cold water. "Let's--ahh--maybe after this, go running or something or _anything_. Shit, I need to call my mom," he mutters, looking back at his cellphone some distance away with aggravation. "You don't want my dad to come _investigate_." 

 

“You’re right,” Sanada says, a bit alarmed. “I don’t want that at all. How can we keep this from happening?”

 

"They're neurotic. I just need to call her and let her know I'm not dying." Yukimura sighs and stretches out. "In a minute. They can assume I am dead until then."

 

“Is there…” Sanada flushes, and lowers his voice, though there’s no one to hear. “Is there something special I’m supposed to...do? Or is it...all right? Uh….there? To clean?”

 

 _God, you're cute_ probably isn't the thing that he should want to say so badly. "Honestly, most of it'll, ah, come out on its own, just kind of wipe up whatever you can. That's one reason why condoms are good, you don't have to drip for awhile afterwards." Yukimura grimaces. "Sorry about it. I can pull out next time if you want." 

 

“I didn’t mind.” And now he’s blushing again, and reaches around to try and….clean himself. “I’m…” Yes, go on, Genichirou, you can say it. “I’m glad it was good enough that you want there to be a next time.”

 

Yukimura blinks back at him. "…You're kidding, right? You're amazing. I've _never_ had sex this good." 

 

Sanada’s breath just won’t come out for a second. When it does, he has to clear his throat a few times, face aching with the delighted embarrassment of it. “Oh. Good.”

 

"Genichirou." Yukimura leans in, grabbing a strand of his hair to haul him forward for a quick kiss. "Seriously. _You_ don't have anything to worry about." He leans back, expression wry. " _I'm_ the one that's constantly thinking you're going to get sick of me."

 

“I,” Sanada says firmly, “could get annoyed by you, or frustrated by you, or infuriated by you.” He turns Yukimura around, tugging the man back against his chest, and murmurs against his neck, “But never sick of you.”

 

"Ah." Yukimura decides flopping is one of the better decisions to be made, and he sinks back against Sanada with a long, slow exhale. "…That makes me feel a lot better," he quietly admits. 

 

“You’re probably the least boring person I’ve ever met,” Sanada says, a little amused by the thought, and he nuzzles into Yukimura’s hair. “I’m just one more Japanese man to you. Why shouldn’t you get sick of me?”

 

"…Because you're the only person that gave a damn." Yukimura lets his head hang forward a bit, enjoying the easy, affectionate attention. "It actually really made me mad at first, which I'm sure you gathered. I thought you were doing it all for your own sake to make yourself look good, but it turns out you're just _that_ honorable of a guy, or so says everyone I have ever spoken to about you. I still think you were kind of an idiot for bothering with me, though." 

 

“The part of that story I don’t understand,” Sanada says after a pause, wrapping his arms around Yukimura’s waist, “is how you thought that hanging around some yankee that drove me insane would make me look good to anyone. You’ve caused me nothing but trouble, and...I’m still here.” He pinches a hip, gently. “Troublesome.”

 

"The part where you eventually reformed me, maybe? Ahh, though I'm never going to be reformed, it's in my blood to be awful." Yukimura turns his head, stuffing his face promptly into Sanada's neck. "I always cause a lot of trouble, sorry." 

 

“You,” Sanada says, “need to re-learn how to give a Japanese apology. The first step is to at least act as if you’re sincere.”

 

"I _am_ sincere." Yukimura pouts, lifting his head. "I already had to do it once to an old friend of mine before I came to see you, please don't make me bow excessively to you, too."

 

Sanada smiles, and brushes a kiss against Yukimura’s lips. “We can be through with that. I don’t mind you the way you are now, even if you’re….excessively foreign.”

 

"You're excessively Japanese, so it evens out."

 

~

 

The tiny sketchbook isn't even closed off from where Yukimura leaves it open to go and shower _properly_ , a pen laid across it to keep it that way. Its edges are rubbed and frayed with mishandling and the general act of being tossed in and carried around in a tennis bag for who knows how long. About a fifth of its insides seem to be written (mostly in Japanese with a great number of kanji crossed out and/or scribbled over), with the rest sketches (the part where empty pages start marked off with a bookmark that happens to be a laminated newspaper clipping about Yukimura's Junior Grand Slam sweep).

 

*

Doubles

~~~

h o w d o y o u d o t h i s

niou only good for some advice

time for more image training

possibly glare at sanada for long time even though his playing style and mine are entirely different

 

Singles

~~~

how did ??? this ???? not happen

maybe if i angrily draw our captain and turn him into a voodoo doll, that will be progress

seriously they put marui in singles once before me

how bad do i suck exactly

 

*

 

**08/13**

 

I hate Japan. Why did I have to come back here right NOW? Rehab coach says I should keep records of my recovery, i will throw this book at him later and out of spite draw him hideously

 

maybe i will remember five kanji by the end of this

maybe

 

~

 

**08/17**

 

Just shoot me because it's so hot. Osaka is a dozen times worse. Kanagawa at least has the beach.

 

~

 

**08/18**

 

Coming to the conclusion that it doesn't matter how healthy I act, my parents will never let me do anything ever again

 

**~**

 

**08/19**

 

Apparently am not doing this journal correctly. Please explain to me why I should talk about how I throw up anywhere from 5 to 15 times a day.

 

 

~

 

**08/25**

 

I'll use this however I want and my coach can fuck off because I hate Japan.

 

~

 

**09/03**

 

Kura got hot. This is news to me. Also weird that he doesn't wear glasses anymore, I bet he has about 5 girlfriends.

 

~

 

**09/04**

 

he has no girlfriends. he is a giant virgin.

he has no idea how gay his team is

 

~

 

 

**09/06**

 

still no improvement

 

~

 

**09/15**

 

Every pill makes me feel sick. Being monitored that I'm taking all of it makes me feel sick.

 

i am not an invalid please go away

 

~

 

**09/27**

 

Ran 2k today and didn't die. need to sleep.

 

~

 

**10/05**

 

Remembering that this time last year I was collapsing in a train station does little to make me feel better. 

 

~

 

**10/15**

 

still nothing

 

played a match against Keigo. He thinks I don't realize when he's deliberately stopping the match so I don't lose.

 

 

~

 

**10/17**

 

I just want to play a match against Keigo and win again.

 

~

 

**10/18**

 

I just want to sleep mostly

 

~

 

**10/21**

 

literally how do I get to sleep. went running with Keigo this weekend, exhausted and still can't

 

~

 

**10/31**

 

halloween is dumb over here

I apparently sleepwalk now. That's news. Also very unfortunate, at least I just ended up in the comfy chair. dad picked me up and informed me in the morning. i recall none of this

 

~

 

**11/03**

 

side effect of taking more than recommended dose of sleeping pills is actually sleep walking

 

~

 

**11/14**

 

I think my coach is starting to realize I'm just not getting better.

 

Doesn't matter how many times they say I'm fully recovered, I'm just not good enough.

 

~

 

**12/01**

 

i would like real food please

no corn pizza is n o t real food

 

~

 

**12/13**

 

slept all day and i'm still tired

 

~

 

**12/25**

 

even christmas over here is ridiculously bad

 

~

 

**12/31(01/01?)**

 

my google search history is interesting right now

mostly i would like the fireworks to stop

 

~

 

**01/13**

 

There is no tournament circuit over here and I want to throw myself into the ocean.

 

~

 

**03/05**

 

Happy 15th to me. not only do I still throw up cake every time but I am still useless against the glorious Keikei

 

~

 

**03/19**

 

i do not want to go to school

 

~

 

**03/21**

 

if i get sick again i will not have to go to school

 

~

 

**03/24**

 

if i could go pro i would not have to do this school thing

 

~

 

**03/30**

 

maybe i can fake being sick again, i always feel sick anyway

 

 

~

 

**04/01**

 

No.

 

~

 

**04/02**

 

If there is anything I have learned at this school in the past two days, it is that I am awful at tennis.

 

~

 

**04/04**

 

Sanada can help me throw myself off a cliff, he seems strong enough

 

~

 

**04/05**

 

i wish i was as good as he is

 

why can't i improve anymore?

 

~

 

 

**04/07**

 

At what point do I give up and realize nothing I want is going to happen?

 

They tell you that it's okay to feel 'down' after remission. They tell you that's normal, because having this kind of a disease is a great toll on the body, and there's no shame in the fatigue, in the weariness, that you aren't a wimp and that it's _fine_.

 

The thing is that it doesn't go _away_.

 

I didn't know it was possible for people to be so unhappy. I've never understood it. I've never had anything but dozens of friends, I've never done anything but win what I wanted to win. I've never understood why other people were so gloomy, or why they were crybabies, or why they didn't have something to live for. 

 

I also never wished more, from the time they realized what I had to the time it was supposedly successfully treated, that I had been alone that day at the train station, and that I had just died right there where I collapsed.

 

Thinking about that makes me feel angry, feel ungrateful, feel a dozen frustrated things. How much trouble did my best friend's family go to help me find the best doctors? How much pain did _my_ family go through? When the leukemia was at its worst, when they couldn't find a match for bone marrow, they were going to end up testing Kaede just before a match was found. She was barely even nine years old. Keigo's mother died of cancer not even a year before I was diagnosed. With that in mind, I should desperately want to live. With that in mind, I should be happy that I had such support, and be happy that I'm even alive.

 

It doesn't work like that. 

 

How many nights was I awake, smothered by anxiety, thinking: "why did it have to be me? Why am _I_ here right now? What did I do to deserve this? There's nothing else I want in the world except to play tennis, and instead I'm here in a hospital room. Taking tennis away means nothing is left, and even if I get out of here, is there any future for me at all?"

 

Remission doesn't even mean anything, because you're lucky if there's a five year survival rate. They don't like telling you that, so they tell your parents. Your parents don't want to tell you, so you look it up online. You end up looking up everything online, from remission success to how much of your medication you can take in order to die.

 

If you aren't dead, there's still the worry that it'll be back, the fear that you're going to run out of time, because when you're sick and dying, you make promises to yourself. You say, _if I survive this, if I get out of here, I'm going to go and do this one thing._  

 

The problem is once you survive, you don't even want to get out of bed.

 

Keigo was gone, because he had to move to Japan far before me. I spoke to him after my last surgery over webcam, and that wasn't anywhere near the same as actually having him there. Everything hurt. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep, eight months later and I _still_ can't sleep, and taking more sleeping pills doesn't make you sleep longer, it just makes you sleepwalk. Apparently. 

 

I've slowly become the kind of person that I used to hate: a sad, mean spirited person that loves nothing about life. I had restaurants and gardens I loved, I had museums I'd go to on weekends, I knew every tennis court in London and how much money I needed in my pocket to go there and play all day. I had friends that I'd go and watch matches with, I had friends that I just wanted to be near, things I just wanted to see. I'd help my mother out at her fashion shows, tell my dad every detail about matches I had played the week before, and teach my sister anything about tennis that she wanted to know.

 

Now, I don't want to be in the house, but I don't want to get out of bed, either.

 

Tennis is the one thing that I told myself I'd get better for. There was nothing else after awhile, because tennis was the one thing I knew I was made to go after. With so many terrible things that happen in the world, maybe it's stupid to put all of my faith in one stupid sport, but there's nothing worse in not being able to pick up your racket, nothing worse in not being able to chase down a ball, nothing worse than wanting to, trying to, and just ending up not able to move. 

 

The only thing that might be worse is knowing how much people wanted you for your talent, but then they all disappear the moment that's gone, the moment you're no longer of any use. 

 

It's a light that goes out. _You're_ a light that goes out. You're exhausted all the time. Nothing you do to get back to where you were works, and you're still convinced you're running out of time, because there's never any guarantee. You feel stalked. You're supposed to be heroic about it because you survived, but there's nothing heroic in still not being able to accomplish anything that you wanted before. 

 

I am the kind of person that I hate. I think that's just how it's going to be now. Is this how you fucking wanted me to use this thing?

 

~

 

**04/08**

 

sleep all day 

cut class all day

 

i am a rebel

 

i might have also tried too hard with the sleeping

 

~

 

**04/31**

 

sanada has a good singing voice and an even better muscular structure

 

~

 

**05/04**

 

Kura was a mistake.

 

Never again never again bad idea

 

~

 

**05/08**

 

I just wish that I could hate him and everything about him but there's no one else that makes me feel as alive as he does.

 

~

 

 

**05/21**

 

this is now a sketchbook again, good bye

 

*

 

The rest devolves into doodles and sketches and occasional notes in English that might possibly be updated comments about every single one of Rikkai's regulars. _Might_ be.

 


End file.
